


names of light

by Lvslie



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (i need to promise that and i do because Oh Boy), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Apocalypse, Crowley defies Hell, End of the World (but Not Quite), Idiots in Love, Longing, M/M, Messenger Angels, Mutual Pining, Prophet!Crowley, Prophetic Dreams, Slow Burn, Vaguely Inspired by Angels in America, smiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-09
Updated: 2018-05-09
Packaged: 2019-04-08 01:30:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 32,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14094084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lvslie/pseuds/Lvslie
Summary: ‘I know all that’s waiting down there is just death. But still. Still. Bless me anyway. I’ll stick with this world to its end. I choose to. Spare Aziraphale, like you promised, don’t you dare let him see what goes down. But leave me alone, bless me, whatever. Let me go. I’m not picking sides.’Or, a story of a second Apocalypse and its accidental Prophet.





	1. we are the hollow men

**Author's Note:**

> Well, here goes nothing.
> 
> I have been dying to finally start publishing this story, which is for the most part already written and waiting for some edits in the later chapters. I'm both extremely excited about it and awfully attached to it, so ... I just hope you will enjoy it and find it at least a little bit as moving as I found the writing process.
> 
> At this point I promise a happy ending, because I believe in happy endings in fanfiction. Gotta find the light somewhere.
> 
> I realise that having theme music would be much more fitting for a film than a tiny little piece of transformative writing like this, but a few of months ago, terribly tired after a uni deadline, I was very nearly lulled to sleep at a classical music concert which I somehow ended up attending, and in my half-dreamy state, I conjured up the first idea for this story to along to [this piece.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mpgyTl8yqbw)
> 
> For now, I'm shutting up — and once again, I hope you enjoy the story. ❤

_one_

_**we are the hollow men** _

* * *

 

 

_(Crowley)_

 

As far as dreamscapes go, location is rarely assigned due any methodically uncovered preference. For humans, it might be a reflection of someplace they have been, distorted or reshaped by impressions and fear. For human-shaped, occult — or _ethereal_ , but Crowley didn’t tend to care about the intricacies of semantics — beings, perhaps there was indeed something more to it all.

A rooftop, really, that could _not_ be coincidental. It was either his subconscious trying to tell him something, or Someone else indeed, _still_ trying to tell him something. Unable to decide which option was worse, Crowley swayed on his heels and swallowed. Standing on the very edge, pointy shoe-tips half-immersed in the oddly tinted air, trying to familiarise the nerve-wrecking possibility of falling, once again he found himself intrinsically unable to. _I know what would happen. I know how it would feel._ He stared down, feeling morbid, into the vague golden haze that hardly even tried to resemble a city, _I still can’t understand how it happened._

This, at least, was a fairly recurrent motif: the recognition of height and the moment of breathless anxiety — extended into a suffocating eternity as he would lose his balance, time after time, the vague feeling of sudden fear erupting in his stomach — and then descent, noiseless, deafening. An arch honed to perfection. He’d swim in the vertigo of impending collision, too stunned to rationalise it, never reaching the bottom of whatever lay below.

At least, not here — he supposed _that_ was a treat reserved for reality.

_‘Fear not.’_ A tinny, eerie voice came drifting from behind: odd, because _unfamiliar_ — and Crowley, though inappropriately accustomed to roaming the improbable dingy corners of his own sleep-stymied cognitive processes, never allocated much attention to strangers. _‘The end is nigh.’_

Frowning at the oddity, he turned lightly on his heel, precariousness of his positioning momentarily forgotten. ‘I’m sorry?’ 

The phrase sounded vaguely like something Aziraphale could have said, at some point or another, across the however-many intersections they will have shared through their six millennia of existence. 

Interestingly enough, the incandescent creature perched upon a solitary chimney of Crowley’s projected rooftop did look more or less like one _would_ imagine a proper angel looking — winged, fairly brittle, radiating some sort of a numbing glow. Vaguely female-shaped.

Hence, all in all, it had impressively little in common with the only angel Crowley was used to seeing with any regularity. 

_‘The end is nigh,’_ she repeated, studying Crowley with something in the way of baffled curiosity in her awful bright eyes. And that expre _ssion_ , he decided, was where all similarities began and _ended_ : Aziraphale in a billowy robe on top of a chimney verged with being an oxymoron.

It almost made him smile. Meanwhile, the angel inclined her head to one side, _‘Why are you here?’_

‘Yeah, only that’s _my_ line,’ Crowley retorted, growing swiftly annoyed, and waved his hand in the air as though to discourage a particularly gluttonous duck. ‘And _my_ dream. Shoo, angel. Get out of my head.’

There were some limits to the Arrangement, after all, and the limits corresponded strictly with the person of Aziraphale.

_‘We wouldn’t expect it to be you,’_ the angel informed him, mildly. 

‘Well, tough,’ said Crowley, slightly unnerved. Shifty things, the other angels, vague and nondescript and those blasted piercing eyes didn’t help in the slightest. ‘Cause I’m afraid _you_ don’t get to be picky, I don’t tend to keep any dependants up here.’

He gestured vaguely at his temple. The angel blinked and raised her eyes upwards, at the thick haze of burnished gold stretching above them. He was never sure why he had so much trouble reinventing the sky: it was hardly a _literal_ manifestation of Heaven, after all. 

She said, _‘We shall proceed nevertheless.’_  

Feeling increasingly more unstable, Crowley stuck his hands into the pockets of his coat. Even in the dream, even now, they were cold. That surely catalogued as an inbuilt flaw. Perhaps he was liable for an informed complaint.

‘Er, good for you?’ he muttered, narrowing his eyes as he glanced around. There was something disturbing happening to the dream: a disjointed decay. The air seemed to be fraying at the seams, the vision slowly bursting and beginning to melt away. Crowley tried to focus enough to resettle the balance, but to no avail: he felt like there was sand pouring through his fingers, dragging him down with it. 

He said, ‘I can only presume you’re something like a … manifestation of my repressed doubts or whatever, so … welcome, it’s kind of high time we met face to face. What was it you were saying? _The end is nigh?_ That’s a new one.’ 

She kept studying the canopy of trembling light, unmoving. _‘Interference is not a possibility.’_

‘Okay,’ Crowley said, a notch irately. ‘Interference in what?’

She closed her eyes. _‘He does not understand.’_

Crowley froze mid-question _who doesn’t?_ — because all of the sudden there was a terrifying presence all around him, pushing down and inwards, rising with the sand, and all of the sudden, falling seemed like the easier way out.

 

…

 

It was a wretched sight, that much was certain: a torn-up landscape after violence, dead matter piled upon ruins, coagulating in an ever-trembling haze of thick dust or ash, no certainty in recognition, air churning like an agonised creature, writhing before death.

There were the trees, or what was left of them: ragged skeletons of grey dead wood with smears of dirty rain upon them, hazy among the fumes of yellow acid, pungent in the air. There was the crushing sound the fragile bones of smaller animals made under his feet as he moved forward, and there was the heavy ceiling of dead thick sky, weighing down upon him as he drew a breath. 

And none of it mattered as Crowley sank to his knees among the muddied coagulation of all that had once been life; none stood the remotest chance against the fact of torn-up feathers of a dead angel in front of him.

Aziraphale’s face was not the face he’d worn for the ages they spent coinciding existences on Earth, nor was it anything that could be in any way described: frightening in its severity of true inhuman form; frightening even more in its stiff morbid stillness.

Crowley found himself unable to cross the bridge of touching.

‘What is this?’ he asked, hoarsely, finding his voice strangely disembodied, coming upon him from every direction except himself, sounding weak and frightened. ‘ _What is this?_ ’

_‘We shall prevail.’_

The voice was ever-present, too, and cruel, much crueller than it had seemed in the honeyed light of his previous dream, much clearer. _‘Interference is not possible.’_

Crowley raised his eyes from the stagnant crude representation of Aziraphale’s demise, only to have them blinded by the newly buzzing expanse of rot around him: particle by particle, the world was crumbling to living dust, filthy and final, crawling towards death.

He wanted to say something else, something defiant and questioning, but the ash stuck in his throat rendering him helpless, and what came out of his mouth was a blur of denial, ‘But he is one of yours, isn’t he? He is one of yours, so how can this be you — you prevailing? How can this be what comes if there’s no interference, how — how do I —’

The ground beneath him dissolved into dust before he finished speaking, a shout of protest caught in his silenced throat. He didn’t, couldn’t ask, _How much time do I have?_

 

_(Anathema)_

 

He looked different. Or perhaps he didn’t; she was never quite sure if what she remembered from that vivid chaos of events was hers or Adam’s hasty repainting: there were bits and pieces missing which Anathema _would_ have catalogued and labelled to analyse. There were evasions, but more importantly, there were reversed priorities. Forgotten voices and gestures, unformed impressions. Downright mistakes.

The Crowley from her memories was a lean dark shape, swift and oddly graceful, shifty like a wild creature prepared for rapid flight, with hyper-focused yellow eyes. Wary, snarky, difficult to properly register. 

There had been wonderful constancy, as well — which she _did_ remember — both in him and the angel, with their respective niches. That sleekness and rapid movement, some easy pleasantness of appearance; Crowley did not look in any measure _heavenly_. A cunning thing, you’d say, deceitful. And that stand-offish air, that reluctance upon closeness, set so blatantly against the soft inoperancy radiated by Aziraphale, from his uncertainly waving hair, hesitant hands and kindly crinkles under the eyes, where the old-fashioned glasses were perched. In warm-coloured tweeds and wool, smelling of dust, and yet — and _yet_. 

There it was, _and_ _yet_ Anathema had hardly ever met someone quite so effortlessly intimidating. Quiet, amiable detachment so thorough that it bordered with outright lack of concern, and which she couldn’t even properly explain; Aziraphale set his mind and clear eyes upon something and suddenly the twitchy feline devil seemed safer by half.

‘We don’t have much time,’ Crowley said presently, wincing as the wind whipped at the upturned collar of his coat.

He stood stiffly, narrow shoulders squared, hands pocketed, eyes fixed without movement somewhere ahead. _There’s the glitch_ , Anathema thought dully, _and how did I not see it earlier?_  

The man-shaped being standing beside her was at the same time stunningly more solid — _observable_ — and peculiarly frailer than her recalled impression. He had a thin face, cheekbones jutting out and lips a small curve, one corner slightly upturned, as though tugging persistently for a smile: remaining in a perpetual argument for optimism with his stark bone structure.

But it was the eyes that truly clashed — snake’s eyes, a bright yellow, too bright under the dark eyelashes, too startling. There was some odd look in them: something in the way of desperation, a relentless, harrowing question.

He looked _strange_ , that much was true, too human to be inhuman, too peculiar to be approachable. The stillness wasn’t beckoning on him, in the sense that he looked too convincing in it, like he’d earlier employed the anxious vivacity as a lesser evil to withstand something worse.

In a flash, Anathema understood Aziraphale’s hand on Crowley’s shoulder, back in that bulky car, all those years ago. She pictured it with a startling clarity: firm touch on a soot-smeared shirt. Steady; it wasn’t the angel who was shaking. 

‘Why do you think it’s going to happen again?’ she asked, steeling herself for the answer as she cupped her takeaway coffee with both hands and took a careful sip.

Crowley’s lips pursed. For a moment, she thought he wouldn’t answer.

Then, finally, he said, his voice guarded, ‘I’ve been having dreams. And I know it’s — that it doesn’t sound like anything much but —’ 

Anathema shook her head before he could finish, an odd mixture of familiarity and sheepishness blooming in her stomach. ‘No, come on. Why wouldn’t it? Dreams are … I mean, dreams can be _significant_.’

Crowley tore his eyes away from the street for a moment to focus on her. Then he muttered, ‘I forget who I’m talking to.’

‘Well, don’t,’ she said, managing a feeble smile over her coffee. Crowley looked down, staring at the wet sand for a moment, quiet. 

‘Thing is, I don’t really know why I asked you to come here,’ he muttered. ‘All I know is that I … I want someone to be aware of what’s going on. I want someone to fight back. I would — it _should_ be done differently. A bigger scale, a proper riot like the last time. Stopping the Apocalypse la-di-da la-di-da. But I can’t do it this way, not this time. I can’t risk it.’ 

‘Risk what?’ she said, frowning. ‘Your … what, status? Since when do you even care about such things? I mean, no offence, but you don’t exactly strike me as the type to —’ 

‘Oh, it has nothing to do with me,’ Crowley replied swiftly, almost too easily, voice strained. ‘Trust me, I — you know me, I think, well enough to know I’d do something if I could. Even the stupidest thing, even the most idiotic goddamned plan you’ve ever bloody heard of, I’d be in if I could. But I can’t, not this time. I have … an obligation.’ 

‘Not the kind of obligation you can work your way around?’ Anathema guessed.

‘Yeah,’ Crowley said weakly, his eyes falling closed. ‘Not this kind at all.’

There was a moment’s silence. Then Anathema asked, ‘Why aren’t you wearing your glasses anymore? I’ve always thought it was, like, your thing. Trademark. That, and the burning car.’

He smiled, and even while it was a rather wan and weary smile, it still managed to change his face into something slightly softer. Anathema fought off the urge to mirror the expression.

‘I don’t know,’ he mused. ‘Guess I stopped seeing the point when —’ He trailed off. His expression turned stony and sober in a split of second.

‘Listen, I probably won’t be … available when it happens. I’ll most likely be … ah, elsewhere. So I just wanted you to know, there’s a place you can — I’ve bought this cottage, yeah? Nothing much, but it’s a decent hideout. And it’s somewhat sheltered, if you get my meaning, from … ngh, let’s just say I took some measures to make it … _safe_.’

‘Why are you telling me this?’ Anathema said incredulously, shaking her head. ‘What do you want me to do, _hide_? I don’t think that’s the best —’

‘I want you,’ Crowley said in a strangled voice, abruptly looking away, ‘to try and preserve whatever you can, whomever you can, for as long as it’s possible. That … boy, what was his name, that was with you. Maybe the children from Tadfield, if you could find them and … or someone else, really, just please, try to survive.’

Her voice softened. ‘It’s been _ten years_ —’

‘I know, I know.’ He inhaled sharply. ‘I know it’s probably ridiculous, but I just can’t bear the thought nobody will think to say no this time.’ 

Anathema swallowed. Then she said, ‘I will.’

 

_(Crowley)_

But he _did_ ask, relentlessly, this and many other questions, in the plenitude of echoes of the same projection that came to haunt him night by night, becoming ingrained so deeply in his subconscious that if felt like second thinking.

An always-present, always-nearing terrible awareness of the inevitable collapse.

_‘We shall prevail,’_ the angel whispered, the rustling sound of her voice almost inviting.

And at some point, he didn’t say, _maybe yes, maybe not, who the fuck knows, it’s meant to be ineffable_. He didn’t ask, _how should that be any better than if you didn’t? Can’t you understand it’s better left as it is?_  

He said, ‘I know.’

_‘_ _Will you accept it?’_

It went on and on, again and again, cruel and relentless. The dream-not-dream, repeated night by night, relived unbearably each time. Recurring until he knew it by heart, each sound and twitch of air by her wings, each tug of the heart and empty, aching ribcage upon waking up to an awareness of passing time.

‘How could I?’ Crowley whispered, ‘Don’t ask that of me. You _can’t_ ask that of —’

  

_(Aziraphale)_

 

Reality had a way of restoring itself inconspicuously to its natural state, heedless or oblivious of whatever interruption caused a momentary ripple on its smooth surface. Persisting states of denial — or, as he liked to put it, _common sense and a healthy approach to unnecessary fussing_ — was something Aziraphale had always appreciated in humans. All in all, they hardly cared for change, especially of the drastic kind.

Much like humans, Aziraphale liked his reality’s shortcomings shuffled under the carpet, tucked warmly under the blanket of routine and pretence of unchanging. And he liked to think he managed to restore this blissful level of stagnation after the Apocalyptic jump-scare ten years prior well enough.

Well — mostly, at least.

One definite change, grand in significance, and not so much subtle as simply _quiet_ in introduction — had definitely occurred, and was currently sitting, a notch decadently, in a chair across the minimalistic white table of the café, stirring his coffee angrily with an overturned spoon.

‘You’ve gone and ordered an espresso again,’ Aziraphale observed, reproachfully, if entirely without feeling. ‘You do that every time, and _every time_ you’re shocked that it tastes the same. Face it, Crowley: you need your milk and that’s all there is to it.’

Crowley winced. ‘You sound like an old spinster berating a six-years-old nephew,’ he said peevishly. 

‘I most certainly do not. I’ll leave it to you to find an alter ego in a six-years-old, though,’ Aziraphale replied scathingly, his gaze slinking down to the monthly rare book catalogue — just in time to barely register the tinny sound of the spoon hitting the side of Crowley’s cup, and the demon’s consequent, rapid flinch.

And suddenly, without fanfare — the way such things, epiphanies and enlightenments tend to occur, _even_ to angels — it struck him; much more powerful than it had any right to be after all these years.

_It_ being that for some flimsy and hardly definable time, Crowley himself had been progressively making his wobbly way towards the centre of Aziraphale’s universe, to finally settle there with a scoff, a wince, and an un-drunk cup of gone-cold black coffee the angel would have to finish off. 

Feeling, all of the sudden, quite taken aback, Aziraphale paused over the scrutiny of his text.

Crowley’s words — something about the _distasteful, undignified practices of south-side baristas_ , most probably — became muted and vague, just as the rest of their immediate reality. Some persistent, possibly important, discovery had begun tugging on the edges Aziraphale’s usually intentionally obtuse awareness, demanding attention.

The thought of their mysterious co-dependence certainly wasn’t unprecedented. To say that Crowley hadn’t been a substantial — not to say, _intrinsic_ — part of Aziraphale’s projection of the universal order, and a frequent actor and co-participant in his existence’s linear progression would be not so much an understatement as an outright lie. 

And, though Aziraphale certainly didn’t tend to devote too much time to such — unnecessary and unnerving — reflections on the nature of their Arrangement, the treacherous grounds it was founded upon _and_ what could or should be read from the bizarre mutuality of their strikingly easy companionship … well, suffice to say that dismissing any of the former as irrelevant to the present state of matters would be pushing at the boundaries of denial, even for his fairly low standards.

Had it not been, after all, precisely _for_ whatever it was that Crowley had turned out to be, and what their Arrangement had come to entail, neither of them would have been sitting at this table or having any conversation at all. _There would have been_ , Aziraphale acknowledged hazily, _considerably more Liszt involved, not to mention even less endurable sounds of music._

He frowned, looking absently at his own immaculate hands laid atop the coffee table, as though vaguely surprised by their physicality. Perhaps that _was_ the point, then — _adaptability and survival_ , weren’t they the main principles of habituation to a prolonged sustenance on Earth? Wasn’t that more or less exactly what the two of them had done?

But even such a theory in no way changed the fact that what actually pushed Aziraphale into his current confusion was neither the logical progression of events nor the reasonable justification for the way things were. 

No, it was something else entirely: something to do with Crowley’s umpteenth black coffee, disappointing time after time and somehow still relentless. What Crowley _was_ , indeed.

It wasn’t even that Aziraphale had come to _know_ the whats and hows of Crowley’s puzzling mind well enough to anticipate the probing of the coffee subject, the tasting, and the inevitable rapid dismay and decline of interest, followed by near-sulking and refusal to continue the conversation towards the end of the breakfast. Until, that is, Aziraphale would take pity on the miserable beverage and order an additional scone, perhaps airily suggesting a walk or an innocuous activity of similar kind, one that would push them both to dawdle well into lunchtime with their shared slice of day, and then maybe even well into the afternoon.

No, it was the overturned spoon — its finer tip submerged in black liquid — and the fact that Aziraphale _knew_ the reason for this curious practice well enough not to think of questioning it, that gave him pause.

‘I hate the bloody noise it makes,’ Crowley had once explained, years and years ago, upon Aziraphale’s raised eyebrows. ‘The less surface to possibly come into contact, the less chance of collision’s how I see it.’

‘My dear,’ Aziraphale had replied, voice clipped, ‘you are ridiculous.’

_The question is_ , he presently thought, flustered as he watched Crowley cut through his scone with an unnervingly precise, familiar movement of the knife, _at what point did I stop thinking that?_

And the answer was, obviously, that he didn’t — and Crowley _remained_ ridiculous, with all his peculiar phobias and even more peculiar fixations, his milk and teaspoons, the shiny car, a half-assed gardening hobby and the most utterly nitpicking approach to respecting dress codes Aziraphale had ever encountered. Mood swings, a heavy overload of sarcasm and a well concealed, semi-perpetual existential crisis that would put Frederic Chopin to shame (and oh, Aziraphale _would_ know.)

He _was_ ridiculous, top to toe, from the tips of coiffed-up dark hair, through the tip of a long nose, to the tips of snakeskin shoes. Ridiculous, and at times utterly incomprehensible at that. So the proper question would go differently:

_At what point_ , Aziraphale asked himself, feeling, all of the sudden, entirely uprooted _, did you manage to become so much that none of this mattered anymore?_

As though in direct response, came Crowley’s sullen remark, ‘My flat’s being audited. Gonna have to move.’

Combined with, and given sudden gravity, by the nature of Aziraphale’s recent thoughts, the news sent him into a rather ridiculous state of alarm.

‘Good grief,’ he said, worriedly, setting his magazine down with a startling flop. ‘How soon?’

Crowley looked up from his plate, visibly surprised by Aziraphale’s sudden attention.

‘Dunno,’ he said vaguely. ‘Soon.’ 

‘Well, where are you going to live?’ Aziraphale demanded, registering somewhere deep in his mind that he sounded only just short of frantic. ‘I won’t have you sleeping around on people’s ovens, you know.’

‘That’s not,’ Crowley said slowly, with an incredulous and drawn-out sigh, ‘something I would ever even _consider_ , where do you get those ideas about me from, Aziraphale?’

_How do you expect me not to have ideas about you_ , Aziraphale thought, feeling hazy. _By this point, you yourself feel like my own idea of something that I myself do not fully understand. The worst and best idea I’ve ever had: you. Besides, you did so in the eighteenth century so don’t even bother pretending it’s below your practices._

‘There’s always room upstairs, at the bookshop,’ was what he said instead, rather mindlessly. 

Crowley tensed visibly. For a lingering second, not a single muscle of his body twitched. Then he sniffed, adjusting the position of his coffee cup on the tiny plate. ‘That won’t be necessary,’ he said, his voice clipped. 

Somehow, quite ridiculously, Aziraphale felt stung.

‘I just meant,’ he said, unable to keep the edge of defensiveness from creeping out into his voice, ‘Why rent out something temporary and expensive, when I barely use the quarters as it is? It’s sheer economics, dear boy.’

‘Yeah, no, I’ll be fine,’ Crowley said dismissively, smearing the butter on his scone with one decisive movement and leaving Aziraphale baffled. ‘Don’t bother.’

Acting harsh and cryptic was in no way a novelty for Crowley: Aziraphale had come to witness countless instances of such behaviour and work through them with barely a thought to spare. What made _this_ case different was a thorough blend of his newfound fragile realisation that he might have undermined the significance Crowley held for him — and the awareness of having no idea how to actually work through the layers of reluctance or understand the reasons for it.

Crowley didn’t look very well: his skin was paler than usually and he seemed to have lost a bit of weight — something that Aziraphale didn’t hitherto consider possible. He acted differently, too: much more like he’d tended to act before the Apocalypse, before the Arrangement even, distant and biting where he normally would be flippant and enthusiastic.

_What caused this change? How come I missed it?_

_And_ , Aziraphale thought, watching Crowley dissect his scone in mournful silence, and feeling a touch of inexplicable cold on his neck, a slither of winter in the bright September autumn, _was this withdrawal the only reason I realised how much I would miss it if you withdrew too far?_

 

…

 

Then a different kind of change came unbidden, change too profound to ignore or accept without a word, in the shape of a creamy envelope with instructions.

 

…

 

In no time, they found themselves sitting on a bench in St. James. It was a wondrously mundane morning: pleasantly yellowing trees, messy background noises exhaled by the city, a slither of lazy Autumn-scented wind — and the sun, _just a bit too bright_ to be having this sort of conversation.

Aziraphale linked his fingers together on top of his book, feeling slightly fidgety.

‘As I said,’ he said cautiously, ‘I _have_ given it much thought, and eventually … Well — eventually, I said … I said yes. Well, I say naturally, meaning that the whole thing wasn’t exactly a question, you understand, more of a … of a chance to go willingly. As opposed to a later chance to … go _unwillingly_ , if you will.’ 

There was a tiny pause: some bird shrieked in close distance. A gust of the sneaky wind fluttered up with a hiss.  Aziraphale adjusted his scarf and trench coat conscientiously, trying not to glance sideways in a manner exceedingly obvious.

‘Oh,’ said his companion, meanwhile. His voice was politely listless, ‘Well, who would’ve thought.’

And he said nothing more.

At times, old times, Aziraphale had thought that Crowley must have been shaped from particles different from the rest of the world: a focused concentration of some dark and trembling matter, an accidental bloom of anxiety. Not anything vile, no. Nothing inherently _vile_ could have this much of a ruffled bird’s impression to itself. 

Like right then: looking ahead, with his expression unfathomable — especially from Aziraphale’s hardly strategic angle. _I could have planned this better_ , the angel thought fleetingly: the intended soothing familiarity of the setting made a tremendously poor substitute for a good judge of Crowley’s reaction. Aziraphale narrowed his eyes a little: the sun was very bright. Slightly _too_ bright, everything became almost too sharp to directly look at.

The wind made the coiffed tips of Crowley’s hair twitch over his forehead. He kept silent.

Crowley — that is, Aziraphale’s private living contradiction, his little hushed-up heresy. Wearing an expensive-looking dark scarf tied neatly around his neck, and sleek sunglasses. Sitting with his arms crossed, gazing directly ahead. Looking somewhat as if he were the lead actor of some inconspicuously shot feature film, _unnervingly_ picturesque. 

Something in Aziraphale’s stomach tightened. ‘You’re not going to say anything?’ he muttered.

Met with silence, he hesitated. ‘After all these years,’ he said, uncertainly. ‘I thought you might —’

‘I’m not sure I’m following, Aziraphale,’ Crowley said abruptly, voice curt and foreign. ‘Are you expecting me to try and hold you back?’ 

Oh, _cold_ — that’s how it felt, unexpected and surprisingly hurtful. The sting almost knocked the breath out of Aziraphale; he barely managed to compose himself before the revelation from a breakfast table — days? hours? weeks ago? — came crushing to remind him of the intricacies of misguided attachment.

‘I was hoping,’ he said, only slightly breathless, ‘for something rather more than indifference.’ 

There was a silence. After a moment, Aziraphale added, his voice deflating into a dejected murmur, ‘Perhaps I’ve been foolish.’

Crowley didn’t move. ‘Perhaps we both have.’

The way he spoke was rigid, even a little biting — _obviously_. But there it was again, Aziraphale couldn’t help noticing: that anxious energy, swarming back in a dizzying tide. Crowley’s left leg twitched, he moved marginally away on the bench, inhaled.

Not for the first time in his life, Aziraphale wished he could see his eyes.

‘This is it, then,’ he picked up, straining his voice into something unbearably light, ringing with ingenuity as he aimed feebly for humour, ‘the end of the world as we know it.’

Crowley sighed.

And before Aziraphale could fully process it, he was getting up, stretching tall on his spindly legs, shoulders tugged forward, wearing a slight wince.

‘Well, good luck in any case,’ he said, voice dry and rustling, not looking at Aziraphale at all. He seemed to consider adding something else but ultimately thought against it; settling for merely extending his right hand, lips pursed.

Stunned, slightly sick to the stomach and caught up in the most dizzying kind of disbelief directed at his immediate reality, Aziraphale found himself standing and gravely shaking Crowley’s outstretched gloved hand.

‘Goodbye,’ he managed, voice catching in his throat before he would add something unforgivable. 

Crowley nodded curtly, ‘Yeah.’

_Change? Or maybe there had been no change, only wishful thinking?_

There was a brief moment of infinity in which Aziraphale wished — prayed — for some sign, some enlightenment, some change of heart, _anything at all_ ; in which he very nearly hauled Crowley closer: to embrace him, punch him in the face, or simply keep in reach — he wasn’t sure.

And then Crowley’s hand slipped out of his grip and the demon stalked away, cutting out in the suddenly blinding sunlight, thin and sparse like a wisp of smoke.

For a moment, Aziraphale felt trapped in a dead world.

 

_(Crowley)_

 

And in the dream, the angel who sometimes wore the face of Adam, sometimes of Hastur, and sometimes of Aziraphale himself, at the same time precious and unbearable, asked, _‘What will be your price?’_  


	2. shape without form, shade without colour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He stood in front of the angel who was watching him: opened his arms, opened his eyes, and said, in a small voice, ‘Checkmate.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, I'm ... sorry. Mostly genuinely (a little bit not). It kind of had to be done.
> 
> (But bear in mind what I promised).
> 
> To continue the music motif, here is [a song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RrhSJzM8NLE) for this chapter.
> 
> I hope you'll enjoy this one – we're moving from last chapter's introduction into the proper story here. 
> 
> – Leslie xx
> 
> [Update: minor fixes introduced after a hasty reread.]

_two_

**_shape without form, shade without colour_ **

* * *

 

 

_(Crowley)_

 

What a terrible, fascinating thing, to be cognisant of one’s own upcoming death.

Crowley had spent most of his existence wavering between feeling simply uneasy to downright misplaced in his physical form; plagued by the too-low body temperature, fussing over the too-lanky shape, cursing his tell-tale eyes.

And even that, even the worst memories that he kept recalling to talk some sense into himself: the entirety of the ghastly fourteenth century, the drunk-through aching hours when everything was _too much_ , the slept-through century and the fought-through century, centuries of agonising over Aziraphale’s silences and cursing himself for being aberrant enough to cause them, different ones spent hating himself for even wanting to speak to the angel, fitful days filled with abject terror and useless anxieties, rash plans and dreaded consequences, apathy stretching across routines, visits Down Below that left him feeling sick to the stomach and more than ever _abandoned_ , loneliness and the small agony of not being able to ask, simply ask _, will you stay with me_ —

None of it seemed to matter in the light of escaping seconds and hours, when he raised his unstable well-known hands to spray the lush plants with rainwater one more time, hovering above the shiny hibiscus in morbid, rapt silence, as though there was anything to celebrate in these mundane chores before the clock struck and something emerged from Hell to pry him from  _this_ _mortal coil_.

 _And where to?_  Crowley thought with a ghost of a smirk tugging at his mouth.  _“Why this is hell, nor am I out of it!” And what comes after? What after cognition? What after all turns into nothing? Nothing? What does_ nothing _feel_ like _?_  

He set down the green Sainsbury’s mister, vaguely appalled at the tug of nostalgia directed at the object. _I become too attached_ , he told himself, the phrase turned almost mellifluous from sheer frequency of repetition. _I become too attached._  

Turning on his heel, he exhaled slowly, deliberately, relishing the stretch of muscle and pull of ribs pushing against skin, skin pressed against the fabric of his immaculately ironed shirt, the curve of his spine and balance of his feet, planted squarely on the soft carpet, steadying the stick-thin frame of his body.

He raised his hands to run them loosely through his hair and then higher, fingers upturned towards the ceiling, eyes falling closed as he strained his neck and counted the seconds before drawing breath again: studiously, with full reverence and awareness of the act.

 _Funny how it all turns so precious right before the end, all this silly fussing._  

Composing himself, Crowley folded back into his usual slouch and sidled towards the leather couch. He waved a languid hand at the television, winced at the eruption of sound and then stared at the moving pictures without perceiving anything but blurry colour.

 _Funny_ , last time he’d done that, awaiting his — back then, still _potential_ — demise, he was a wreck of nerves, twitchy and torn by paranoiac backwards glances, pretending to busy himself with tasks and spiralling further and further into panic instead.

It was different this time, perhaps because he was _choosing_ to go through it all on his own accord, or perhaps because it was already decided. The disease’s only symptom was his heart, too fast and greedy in the ribcage, puncturing the last appreciation of Crowley’s physicality with distasteful, rapid punches against his chest: a stuttering rhythm of fear.

But outwardly _—_ why _,_ he was uncharacteristically composed. Oddly so; had Aziraphale walked in right now, into the pristine white flat, to witness Crowley’s farewell to the mortal realm, he would not have been able to detect the threat from any of the usual misgivings. No, the cohesion of his own pretence startled even Crowley.

He simultaneously berated himself, angry, for _wanting_ the very impossibility such a hypothetical scenario entailed: wanting it with a violent, irrational intensity.

For Aziraphale — fussy and more than a little resentful, but nevertheless concerned enough to actually turn back and snuffle around — to march into his living room, scold Crowley for acting so childishly and demand an explanation. For being given a chance, one chance, of giving in and spilling the truth, confessing sloppily what he had vowed to do, and knowing ­­— _knowing_ , instead of guessing — whether he would be stopped. Whether he would be spared. Whether there was another option.

Annoyed, he flicked off the television set and stalked to the kitchen. Here it went again: minor failings, time after time, even after setting his mind upon something, he was never able to get rid of the doubts. Weakness of character, _obviously_ , but could he once, just _once_ in his life, decide on something properly and not waver?

 _At least, I suppose, there_ is _no alternative_ , _not by this point_ , Crowley thought, eyes shut as he leaned against the kitchen counter, a solitary bottle of Riesling placed quietly before him, inviting for some much-needed distraction.

Project — that he could, project all he desired, but the fact of Aziraphale’s departure to Heaven and fairly non-existent probability of return remained unshaken.

Which, all in all, was a blessing — that he took the bait so _easily_ , that he did what he was supposed to do — and Crowley was dimly aware that he had a lot to be thankful for: give him one opportunity of turning away, one shout of his name in Aziraphale’s voice, and he could not swear he wouldn’t cave.

This way, the only opponent was himself. And that, at least, was something Crowley could deal with.

And the thing itself seemed simple enough, almost elegantly efficient: all he had to do was show up and keep relatively quiet, though in all honesty, would anyone _care_ enough to stop him from screaming for his life if he wished for a little drama as he went? 

Smiting in a deserted alley, with the first thunder of the first official warning from the Heavens, as promised: and he will not have to witness the end of all things precious, he will not be delivered to Hell or used by anyone at all, and _Aziraphale will be spared_.

 _A selfish deal all in all_ , Crowley thought, taking a generous swig of his wine. _Neat_.

 

…

 

The worst thing, turns out, was to step outside. Turning the key in the lock, Crowley leaned against the door with the whole weight of his body, forehead pressed flat against it, jaw set and eyes shut, trying, trying with all his might, to suppress a shiver.

_I don’t want to go._

He thought he would sob, but didn’t. He stayed that way instead, unmoving, listening to the hollow silence of the white marble staircase and his own oddly loud breathing. 

Finally, with labour, he lifted himself off the door, let his hand fall to his side, exhaled once again, and descended down the stairs.

What came after was, in a sense, easier.

 

…

 

Finally, he was there, standing on a street that was emptier than he’d ever believe London could be, under a canopy of softly grey air and clouds, between the stagnancy of stone and windows, each deserted — lacking witnesses as though the entire world vowed to turn its eyes away from his disturbing wilful execution.

Nothing was out of the ordinary — except for the stillness and the angel flying down onto the pavement: bright against the grey, arms wound around a sword, hair a halo around her face. A thing of utter grace, almost shocking while set against the fact of Crowley’s stuttering, desperate heart that leaped into the throat, as though begging, _turn back, turn back, turn back_ …

But Crowley didn’t move. Glued to his spot, cold from the piercing damp wind of early English autumn, he stood staring at the angel, feeling as though everything that was happening was happening alongside him rather than to him, and he was merely a subject to the odd spectacle, invited by mistake, unable to understand.

There were, surely, multitudes of things to be thought about in this last space for consciousness: moments to make peace with or treasure, guilt to be acknowledged and thanks to be made, but Crowley had never cared for proper order.

And so, his thoughts strayed: brushing once again past the idea of Aziraphale like one would brush by a memory bright and pleasurable yet impossible to be presently relived, burning on the peripheries like a shiver of excitement, a hidden promise yet to be fulfilled.

And then they travelled, wound themselves around the scent of the air, and murmured, _it’s going to rain, it’s going to pour like it hasn’t in months, drown the entire city until there are roadblocks, and then perhaps drown the entire world so that it reaches Heaven; and then the angels, all the rusty blinded angels, come startled to touch and say,_ ‘ _what a wretched thing, this world, corroded and wet, and who could have lived there, no wonder it all died —’_

Closing his eyes, throat tight with something unspeakable, Crowley thought, _but not yet, not just yet. Now it’s still as it should be._

_‘Lo and behold, into the Smiting the first of the Demons went, struggling against the Angel who came upon him; struggling in the Name of Light which came to blind him.’_

Slowly, with either ceremony or simply resignation, Crowley stepped forward and moved towards the light, eyes closed, breathing deeply. The air was full of ozone. 

He stood in front of the angel who was watching him: opened his arms, opened his eyes, and said, in a small voice, ‘Checkmate.’

With a sharp desperate movement, he grasped the angel’s wrist and yanked the blade inwards, aiding the thrust.

What happened later was a stunning cry of a grander reality coming to a halt in an unaccustomed world. The air stopped moving, gravity halted, the concealed light came to a radiant end and spilled over, ripping its way into the visible world with noise so great it was both deafening and inaudible. The blade cut through layers of existence and hit upon life, and then persevered. The demon’s body shook with hit, twittered and gave way, shape coming undone. 

A painful, blinding light erupted from the core, where holy metal met varnished profane skin, tearing up veins and shattering bones. Wings came into sight, flickered and settled into physicality, feathers burning one by one and everything dying, dying rapidly and slowly, scattered with the illuminated ashes. Fingers charred, throat pulled taut, chest concave, everything becoming less than a shape and more the fact of being, constrained and constraining. In the end even the eyes gave way to the light, yellow melting into white, white extinguishing the open mouth, the strangled breath and last clotted blood, all made into light. Nothing escaped the light.

With immaculate precision, the blade was withdrawn, leaving the charred human shell suspended in a final moment of half-existence, breathless but not quite without life, because still surrounded by it. Then the light relented, allowing time to restore itself and be revived, leaving weight to the pull of the ground.

Ruptured, Crowley fell to his knees and onto the wet, washed concrete. A flurry of ash or feathers followed by the inevitable continuity of rain, and soon there was no more movement, and no more strangeness. The earth resumed the old causality: just another thing to welcome into rot. Whether there had been light, the stone would not remember.

_‘And lo! The Demon Fell, Short of Witness, and delivered the Message of Beginning.’_

 

…

 

Somewhere up above, a different angel blinked, thrown off balance, and entirely confused as to _why_.

  

_(Anathema)_

 

The stillness didn’t last very long: after all, cities have their ways of rebelling against silence and disproving routines: soon enough, there came a rumbling sound of thunder, casting a shadow over the pensive angel that stood over the body, her hands laid atop the sword’s guard. First drops of rain came rustling against her wings, but she didn’t move, not until there was a different sound, tyres screeching to a halt on the yet-dry pavement, frantic sounds of hurrying footsteps, strangled breathing:

‘Crowley! Crowley! I had a dream, too, I ­— oh my God, is it too late, is it ­too — Crowley, _oh my God_.’

She found herself coming to a rapid halt, breath caught in her throat at the sight before her: a willowy white figure with wings, looking down calmly while resting against a blood-stained sword, and a brittle impression of someone motionless, crumpled at her feet like a doll with strings that somebody had cut off, shapeless and lacking all colour except the violent dark red; all shrouded in the darkening mist of increasing rain. 

‘No,’ Anathema whispered, ‘no, no. Please, I — I wanted to warn you …­’

Almost unconsciously, she moved closer, sinking to her knees on the ash. She was late. She’d been late before she understood what was happening, before she began agreeing to meet up with him in dingy old coffee-shops, lying to herself that the reasons did not stem from loneliness; late when she looked at his face and failed to see the reason for _his_ seeking out of someone as inconsequential and improbable as her; late when she opened her eyes this morning, head throbbing with an inexplicable nightmare and a long-since-felt looming promise of _something that was about to happen_.

It was him, there could be no mistake: lying in on the ground face down, entirely broken, but at the same time, it couldn’t, it couldn’t be, it was not how it was _supposed_ to be.

‘Have you done this?’ Anathema heard her own voice before her body turned, all somehow outside of her consciousness, eyes travelling up to meet the angel’s, blinking in the thickening drizzle, ‘Have you done this?’

The angel did not respond, merely studying Anathema’s face with something akin to curiosity painted all over her radiant face.

‘Why?’ Anathema said, shaking her head. ‘Why? I don’t understand, why would you do this, I — say something. Say something, why?’

There came the sound of a distant thunder. The rain thickened. If it was meant to be that same day all over again, it did not feel like it: she remembered a rushing heart, conviction and excitement; warm fingers twined against a stranger’s, odd kinship in the face of impossibility, a sense of purpose. Now it was merely coldness, pushing from each side, and a burning awareness of misplacement. Some pleading voice in her head, whispering, _stop, stop. I don’t know how to do it this time._

‘Say something,’ Anathema whispered. ‘Do something. Save him. You can still save him. Please.’

The angel’s face remained unfathomable and bright: alien. Just as inhuman as Crowley, but dressed in her mysticism like a cloak. 

Her voice made Anathema shudder: different than anything she could remember hearing, ringing and powerful and alien as swell, clearly unused to being directed at human beings, _‘There is nothing to be done.’_

She stammered out, ‘W-what do you mean, you’re a … a bloody _angel_ , you, you have to help him, he’s — he doesn’t deserve this. I promise, listen. Just help him, I … I’ll just …’ 

With shaking hands, Anathema touched Crowley’s shoulders, tugging weakly as though to overturn him, and then looking desperately back up at the angel. Her knees were stained with ash and blood, her lips were trembling. Cold, all cold. ‘Please.’

_‘He is not to be helped.’_

‘But he’s _good_ ,’ Anathema insisted, clutching at Crowley’s torn-up shirt. ‘He’s not like … he’s … he’s better than people. I’d know. I _know_ him. He just wanted it all to stay as it is. He’s told me, he’s … Please, if you could just — help him. He’s good. He was good. He’s my friend.’ 

 _‘There is nothing to be done,’_ the angel repeated, unperturbed.

Stuck in the overpowering helplessness, Anathema shook her head once again. Water was streaming down her cheeks, and whether it was rain or something else, it was impossible to tell. She was numb with cold, and far beyond scared.

‘How can you turn away?’ she demanded, her voice hoarse. ‘How can you all just … turn away while we’re still here? He said it’s going to be worse than the last time — but I don’t understand. How is that fair, how is that … _heavenly_? Don’t you listen to us? What kind of a God —’

She broke off. The angel didn’t speak, either — in her whitely dress and wings, untouched by the rain, she looked almost pitying as he stared down at Anathema.

 _‘Interference is not a possibility,’_ she said, evenly.

Anathema’s hands convulsed on Crowley’s shirt.

‘Go, then,’ she spluttered, tensing. ‘Go, go away. _Go away!_ ’

For a moment, she thought the angel might hesitate, lean down and bring about the only logical miracle — but she didn’t. Blurry and hazy in the unrelenting rain, she rose in the air in a slow motion of wings, and soon became no more than a vague impression of something blinding that Anathema might well have conjured up in some childhood fantasy, were it not for the evidence by her knees.

There was no noise left, except for the mercilessly pouring rain and wind howling through the broken windows of abandoned buildings. Anathema closed her eyes.

 _Preserve what you can,_ he had said, _for as long as you can._

A glare of light so bright that it lit up her closed eyes startled her.

Clutching nervously at Crowley’s limp body, she held her breath as the glare approached and expanded, accompanied by a roar of sudden sound. _Is it beginning?_ was what flitted through her mind before recognition clicked into place and she realised she was staring into two points of light, hearing an engine rev, doors shooting open —

A blurry dark shape in the trembling downpour, coming into hazy focus: an old car, black like a caravan, ghastly and in the eerie light and devoid of a driver.

‘Let’s,’ she said shakily, scrambling ungainly to her feet and tugging Crowley with her, ‘let’s get him home.’

 

…

 

The garden would have been beautiful, were it not so strange: dusty and overgrown; rosebushes woven with cobwebs, haphazard grass swallowing the moss-conquered old concrete, and this morbid air of looming decay. She stopped in her tracks in front of the folly, thrown off balance. 

What _was_ she doing here? 

‘There you are,’ there came a voice, familiar and rather improbable. ‘I thought you’d never come.’

Swallowing, Anathema turned on her heels, bracing herself for the sight: of the only face this voice could have belonged to.

‘You’ve been waiting for me?’ she found herself saying, voice stymied and hesitant and yet still with a sharp edge on it. ‘I thought we’d agreed not to — not to wait, I mean, it was supposed to be a mutual — ’ she trailed off, quite unsure of what she’d meant to say.

Newt shrugged, a lanky shape of vaguely mismatched characteristics and curly dark hair. He was smiling, as sheepishly as humanly possible, and rocking slightly on his heels. ‘And weren’t you supposed to give up otherworldly mix-ups?’

‘I was supposed,’ Anathema corrected him, coolly, ‘to give it some _thought_.’ 

He raised his eyebrows. ‘And have you?’ 

She pursed her lips. ‘I _might_ have.’ 

There was a moment of almost physically uncomfortable silence. Desperately looking for something to derail both the conversation and the haze of unshaped feelings and possible regrets welling up somewhere inside her, Anathema stared past Newt, at the solemn folly.

‘Where are we?’ she said, frowning. ‘I’ve never dreamt of anything like this before. And I — I keep a detailed log of my dreams. As you _know_. So, what’s the deal here? What are you doing here?’ 

‘We’re …’ Newt sighed, shuffling his feet on the slightly damp ground, ‘ah, somewhere difficult to come back from, I’m afraid. Unless,’ he broke off for a moment, and then looked her straight in the eyes.

Anathema shuddered. _His eyes_ , there was something wrong with his eyes and —

‘Unless somebody would lead the way.’

Anathema drew a steadying breath. ‘And _I_ get to be bloody Orpheus, because ...?’ she demanded, hands bunched into fists at her sides, heart a notch too quick in the ribcage.

Newt-not-Newt remained unruffled. ‘Well, who else?’

 

…

 

She was jolted awake by something her half-conscious brain must have registered as a potential danger: so rapidly that the precarious remains of the dream melted away into nothing upon the first collision with wakefulness. Inhaling sharply, she stirred — she was curled up in a sagged armchair, in the passage between the cottage’s kitchen and main hall, a strategical venue for picking up as broad a range of disturbances as possible.

Momentarily dizzy, she rubbed at her numb right wrist, trying to retrieve proper blood-flow. As she moved, a nasty tartan-patterned afghan she’d been wrapped in slid down onto the floor, giving way for a shock of dreadfully cold air to wash over her. Anathema shivered, huddling in the armchair.

Simultaneously, she became aware of two things. One: it had not been this cold when she’d dozed off in the armchair, and the front door had certainly not been flung open and twitching creakily in the gusts of air. Two: something else was pouring into the house along with the low-pitched wail of the wind. Music. 

Frowning, Anathema strained her neck and peered at the ajar entrance. Not just any kind of music, too. Not even a particularly creepy or ominous kind. No, if she could trust her vaguely sleep-muddled hearing — and, quite accordingly, if she could trust that she was not still immersed in a dream at that — what she was hearing was a faraway, somewhat muffled echo of … Queen’s _Bicycle Race._

Anathema blinked. And it _was_ coming from the outside.

Still frowning, she slowly rose from the armchair. She  _had_ consumed more than enough popular media concerning idiots landing themselves deep in trouble by strutting right into supernatural traps or various kinds. With that in mind, she cast a speculative glance around, and then first ducked into the kitchen, second to the cupboard under the stairs.

She might have spent only a little over a day cooped up in Crowley’s puzzlingly eclectic Emergency Cottage, and the majority of this time might have been devoted to hysterically attempting to hide its owner’s body from sight and then calm down enough to stop feeling violently nauseous —

 _But_ , she thought soberly, _one simply does not enter a new location without finding easy access to possible weaponry._

Armed with a bread knife, thick rubber gloves and something that looked like a bottle of plant fertiliser with a promising-sized nozzle, she advanced towards the darkness skulking behind the open front doors.

Outside was cold, spine-chillingly so, and Anathema shivered again. The music was stronger there, well-defined, and seemed to be coming from the direction of the tool shed (or, as she had discovered, an impromptu garage) near the junction with the path to the back garden, along a wan trickle of yellowish light spilled jerkily across the morbidly dark grass. 

Bracing herself, she glanced around through narrowed eyes and marched decisively across the lawn. Whoever was trying to give her a heart attack — be it another bitchy angel or simply a common stone-cold murderer — was to be taught a proper lesson. Skidding to a halt just outside of the shed, she crept sideward to the ajar door and peered tentatively inside.

The view was half-obscured by a tangle of fishing rods and gardening tools, and except for a vague outline of a something large and bulky and the muted light, there was little to see: no movement, no living shapes. The music _was_ coming from the inside, that much was clear, but whomever was inside, was also effectively concealed. Making up her mind, Anathema clutched at her weapons of choice and kicked the door open with an echoing crash.

‘Hello?’ she called out, bluntly. ‘Who’s there?’

There came no answer. Slightly taken aback, Anathema realised that the faintly-lit shed was, indeed, deserted — there was no one inside, just a scattering of dust, a couple of spiders startled by the door hitting the wooden wall … and a familiar car-shaped object covered hastily with a black tarpaulin.

Frowning, Anathema walked up to the car and yanked the garment off in one decisive movement. Coughing in the whirlwind of dust that followed, she made a wobbly step back and blinked at the revelation: the Bentley, still flawless, still wet from the rain, still parked as neatly among the rubble as she had left it … blaring out a shrill invocation of Freddie Mercury’s wish to _break free_ from its Blaupunkt.

‘What,’ Anathema said to herself, voice choked from the dust, ‘the hell.’

The Bentley, quite unperturbed by her inquiry, continued playing the record. After the moment of confusion passed, Anathema slowly set the plant fertiliser on the bonnet and plucked at the car’s door. Slinking inside, she fell onto the driver’s seat and shut the door behind her.

At once, she was overcome with the earlier-bashed crippling feeling of nausea, having little to do with the rush of adrenaline or surprise wearing off.

The inside of the car was dry and pristine, well-kept to the point of obsessiveness, clearly doted over. There was a vague familiar scent in the air, one she’d come to associate with Crowley over the however many meet-ups they have shared. Nothing seemed to signify or even acknowledge the fact that the car’s owner had ceased to care, ceased to _think_ and _exist_ in any manner altogether. Nothing of the scent of blood-drenched rain-soaked clothes and death persisted, nothing was rotting. 

‘What is it, a goddamned swan song?’ Anathema whispered, feeling sick and frigid, and hugging her arms to herself. She had managed to shun the recollection of the previous night from her mind thus far — mostly through sheer denial, resilience and a desperation to remain sane — but any further attempts to stop the memories flooding in now proved futile.

‘It’s too late,’ she croaked out. ‘ _Nothing can be done_ , she said, and I’m … I’m sorry.’

For a moment, she felt as though she was speaking to Crowley himself, somehow present, pointedly mute and lingering in the air beneath the noise of the music. ‘I’m _so_ sorry.’ 

As she stared vacantly at the steering wheel, Anathema’s thoughts strayed from the sodden alley into a different place altogether: a grisly ancient garden, convoluted like a forsaken labyrinth, ensnared with creeping ivy and greyed haggard rosebushes. And among it all, among the dreary dead light, a gaunt figure.

 _‘And I get to be bloody Orpheus, because ...?’_ she had said. 

 _‘Well, who else?’_ Newt had replied, with a self-deprecating smile and an indeterminate shoulder movement, softly, and it had _made sense_. Of course she would come for him, even after everything, even if it made no sense, she would come and drag him from the dead and back into the world of the living, because if she could comply with a book of prophesies and sustain the end of the world, then she damn well could defy something else to do it once again.

She was snapped out of the nostalgic reverie abruptly by a delayed response to another change in the music: somehow escaping her notice, the Bentley dove smoothly into the poignant opening verses of the  _Bohemian Rhapsody_.

‘Okay,’ Anathema said in a small voice, nodding and trying to keep herself together. The back of her throat was stinging, and so were her eyes, and she didn’t like crying, didn’t _tend_ to do it —  but perhaps sitting in a dead man’s car at world’s end, the last woman to breathe the planet’s air qualified as something in the way of an excuse.

‘Okay,’ she repeated, hoarsely. ‘What are you even trying to tell me?’ 

And even before the words managed to fully leave her throat, she was seized by rapid realisation. _Tell_ her _._ _Tell._ Trying to — to _say_ something.

Rapidly, as if burned, she leaped out of the car, nearly stumbling over her own legs and falling down to the shed’s dusty floor. Slamming the Bentley’s door shut behind her, she picked up the fertiliser and raced straight back to the cottage, cold air biting at her lungs as she ran, wet grass whipping at her legs. Frantically, she rushed back inside, tucking the fertiliser under her arm and fumbling through the drawers in search of a torch.

Having located it, she dove to the trapdoor leading to the wine cellar. Almost tumbling downwards, she shakily made it down the narrow stairs, and came to a halt at the bottom. With trembling fingers, she fumbled with the torch until a flickering weak light erupted in the dense twilight, and then reached for the clasp in the door.

The door yielded and swung open with a low whine, letting the light spill into the small cold cellar. The air was spiked with mould and dampness — and, _yes_ , the cloying tangy scent of clotted blood, too — and there was a dreary silence, broken only by the wan, ghoulish echo of the Bentley’s concerto sneaking in from up above.

Anathema inhaled sharply, trying not to shake too much.

‘Hello?’ she said tremulously. 

There came no answer. She raised the torch to lend some light to the catafalque of a shabby wooden table she’d utilised the previous, only to find it … empty. With her heart up her throat, properly trembling now, Anathema jerked backwards, scanning the floor.

 _Oh ­— oh, there he is_ , she thought in a dull haze, dropping the knife and fertiliser and crouching down next to Crowley; reaching out to clumsily try and turn him over from where he lay face down on the stone floor, _I must have laid him down wrong — he must have fallen down or —  or —_  

Crowley went limply in her hands, letting himself be overturned — cold to the touch _,_ still half-wrapped in the shroud of the white linen sheet she’d found for him, gruesomely blood-stained now _—_ to reveal his hollowed waxy face and torn-up shirt.

Anathema’s heart had not returned to its original place and pace, but she forced herself to try to rationalise her hear.

 _Stupid, stupid human hang-ups,_ she thought angrily _. Stupid me, for being a child about it all. What could have possibly happened?_ _What could be the danger here?_

‘G-god, you gave me a proper fright,’ she stammered, finding her voice. ‘Almost thought you were —’

It was in that very moment that Crowley chose to inhale raggedly and convulse, one of his hands shooting up and clutching blindly at Anathema’s shirt, as thought to drag her down. 

Stifling an ungodly shriek of terror that threatened to tear its way out of her throat, Anathema managed to brace herself against the table and grope for Crowley’s sternum instead, pushing a hand against his ribcage.

‘Oh my God,’ she choked out, voice painfully shrill; adamant not to listen to the raging noise of blood pounding in her eyes and pass out, focusing on the unmistakable dull rhythm under her fingers, ‘oh my _fucking_ God, _you’re alive_.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I dunno if the old note from the last chapter is still showing here ... something keeps glitching when I try to get it removed. The sentiment is the same, though. I'd love to hear from you. What d'you think is going on?)
> 
> (And like. LOTS OF LOVE to all of you ❤❤❤)


	3. in death’s dream kingdom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley blinked, shivered, mute. Something, something he didn’t remember — 
> 
> ‘You always get so distant when you sleep too much,’ Aziraphale muttered, ‘and I keep wondering —’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go again!
> 
> I'm going to talk much more in the end notes this time, mainly because I don't want to spoil something.
> 
> Anyway – thank you for sticking around, you're all absolutely wonderful. I'm very sorry that I have been so dreadfully slow with replying to your wonderful reviews, my life has gotten a bit overwhelming lately, and it seems that all my coherence regarding human interactions is ... limited to bare necessities in person and lost indefinitely. I treasure every one of the reviews nevertheless, and they ... literally brighten up my days <3
> 
> Meanwhile, let me lead you into the depths of Crowley's slightly confused mind.

**_three_ **

**_in death’s dream kingdom_ **

* * *

 

 

_(Anathema)_

 

‘Look, I get it, alright? I get it. You’re Lazarus the bloody second, I get the whole … method acting thing. Or _whatever_. But we _need_ to get one thing clear. You. Have got. To _eat_. Do you understand me?’ 

Perhaps unsurprisingly by this point, Anathema was graced with no answer.

She sighed. ‘You could at least _try_ to help me with this. You bloody liar.’

She was sitting astride on a stool pushed up to the bed, clad in a considerably too-large and richly stained shirt and holding up a bowl of still-steaming beetroot soup.

‘ _Elsewhere_ , my arse,’ she muttered wretchedly, setting the soup aside and wiping her forehead with the — admittedly, quite beetroot-smeared — back of her hand. ‘“ _I’m gonna be elsewhere_.” As soon as you wake up, I’m going to kick _your_ sorry arse all the way back to Hell. We clear on that?’

Directly ahead of her was Crowley, propped against a number of piled-up pillows which ensured that he remained upright. He was dressed in a distressing collection of mismatched soft-thread clothes which — combined with the intricate dressing of white bandages wound around his eyes — gave him the startling look of a recovering World War II soldier.

Anathema, on her part, had never fancied becoming a nurse.

‘See, as much as I don’t like to be in the position of threatening you right now,’ she went on, voice cracking _— God, I should drink some water, or maybe_ sleep _, just for a while, because if this goes for much longer, I’ll be the one in need of resuscitating —_ as she gestured menacingly with her tablespoon. ‘I _will_ resort to a drip-feed if you don’t cooperate.’

Crowley did not move. His head was tipped forward, chin almost touching his sternum, and if it weren’t for the faint, unsteady movement of his ribcage, Anathema would surely doubt whether he was alive at all. His skin was ashen in colour, unnaturally pale and sunken where it poked out from under the bandage.

‘Please,’ she said again, relentlessly. ‘You did it once. So please. Just _wake up_.’ 

It may well have been something in the way of an exaggeration, she knew: there was a certain amount of doubt obligatory to be ascribed to calling what Crowley had done factual _consciousness_. 

She closed her eyes briefly, the flurry of shaky images flitting across her mind once again, stuck on a relentless loop:

The clutching cold hand pulling her down in the cellar — the frightening realisation as she found his pulse and screamed for help, screamed and screamed until there was no more air left in her lungs and it hit her that _no one was to come_  — the incoherent slurred string of words that seemed to belong to no earthly language spilling from Crowley’s mouth as she tried to heave him up the stairs — Crowley himself, shaking and coughing up blood — Anathema repeating _fuck, fuck, fuck_ as she nearly slipped on the stairs, trying to angle him in a way which wouldn’t get everything wet — the cascade of antiseptics and gauze from the bathroom cupboard in her hands as she stammered aloud that _this is not enough, I need more, I need a hospital, he’s all torn up —_

Then there were many blurry hours spent in the fumes of the disinfectant and well-preserved, old-family herbal concoctions, in the small blue-curtained room upstairs; hours filled with red-stained sheets and cloths and shaky hands slowly morphing into hands steeled by tedious repetition, and finally wiped against her ruined trousers as she stared at the last patch of innocuous creamy bandage covering tattered skin.

 _His eyes_ , she thought, _his eyes were the worst_. Burned out completely: two dark hollows in their wake. Next went the innumerable lesions and wounds, marking the entirety of his sinewy long body, crowned by the torn-up, sickening deep cuts between the shoulder blades, where the roots of his wings would be.

At first, she couldn’t bear to look for more than a second without getting nauseous.

With time, it became more of a routine: she talked to him even though there was no answer, a relentless soliloquy about how the world was still alive and _nobody seemed to be coming_. She read to him. Changed his bandages despite not knowing the nature of his wounds, guessing blindly at the correct procedures.

Felt alone.

  

_(Crowley)_

 

‘Where _am_ I?’ 

His voice sounded incredulous, for sure, but it was also oddly disembodied, as though witnessed rather than uttered. He did not feel particularly bodily, either, or at least much too severed or splintered to still compose a whole: somewhat too lightheaded, somewhat too flimsy, perhaps liquefied or permanently released.

The angel that was watching him seemed _familiar_ , somehow, but he couldn’t remember her name or the reason for her familiarity. The landscape around them did not help: a hazy nebula of greyish shapeless particles, no ground or abyss, no up or down, just a mutely buzzing void and the seemingly nonsensical angel in a robe, floating before him. 

‘ _Where do you think you are, Prophet?_ ’ the angel said.

 _Prophet?_ he thought dimly. Then he thought _, Her voice is weird._

He tried to push past the fuddled cottony mush in his head but found it futile: the more he wanted to focus, the more translucent his bones and flesh seemed to be and the further away he floated from any sense of coherence. When he opened his mouth, it was as though he had no mouth; or rather, that his mouth had been misplaced somewhere outside of the body. When he moved, it was as though all of perception moved against him, spinning around, not settling, not for _one moment_.

He felt nauseous.

‘Hell?’ he hazarded a guess, words disjointed and clumsy on his tongue. It seemed like an easy guess, reasonable somehow, though he couldn’t remember the reason for _that_ , either. 

 _‘Have you not been to Hell, before?’_ there came the answer. _‘Was it anything like this?’_

Quite independently from his own will, he found himself declaring, ‘ _Which way I fly is Hell, myself am Hell; and in the lowest deep a lower deep still threatening to devour me opens wide.’_

The angel looked momentarily surprised. _‘Prophet, are these your thoughts?’_

Slowly, very slowly, Crowley — _because that was his name, wasn’t it? Funny things, names. Funny_ — said, ‘I … I uh, don’t know.’

‘I don’t …’ he hesitated once again. ‘I’m not _sure_ where I … begin. Or what I’m supposed to be.’

Something _was_ coming back to him, a distant vague awareness of something that was supposed to be taking place, and he struggled to catch this realisation before it swam away from him.

‘Sorry,’ he said, haltingly, peering at the blurry angel, ‘but shouldn’t I be doing do the not-existing-at-all right now?’

 _‘Prophet,’_ the angel replied, in her misplaced ringing voice. _‘First you shall be awake.’_

 

…

 

‘Ngk.’

Then, after a while, ‘I should be dead.’

‘Well, you’re clearly _not_ ,’ Anathema’s voice offered, unhelpfully, hung somewhere among the thick darkness. ‘So I think we can safely move on from that point.’ 

‘I can’t … _do_ anything,’ Crowley said, slowly and with frustration, writhing on his sheets.

He was more or less certain of being deposited in a fairly large bed, because neither the expansive stretch of his limbs, nor the constant restless thrashing didn’t result in a descent of any kind. Suddenly exhausted, he stilled the squirming and fell back onto his damp pillow, gasping for breath. 

For _Someone’s sake_. And he’d had the cheek to complain about not feeling very _fleshly_.

His chest hurt, a stifling nauseating ache, from the lungs through the ribs to the skin, rendering him almost incoherent. Unable to stop himself, he kicked up once again, arching up from the mattress, getting almost high on the ringing in his ears. _G_ — _Someone_. _Anyone_. _Mercy_. Why would he have to be _conscious_ through this?’

‘No … miracles,’ he gasped out. ‘No _nothing_. Then I’d at least … sleep it off, shed some skin, brand new Crowley etcetera etcetera. Instant painkillers. Now’s just … _fuck_. I can’t even _see_. I can’t — fucking _see_.’

‘Miracles?’ Though hazy and muffled, probably by the relentless disembodied shriek in Crowley’s ears, she sounded surprised. ‘I thought that was the angels.’ 

‘ _Ahh_ ,’ Crowley whinged out, giving up entirely and thumping his head against the bedpost as he slumped dramatically back down. The vibrations sent a riptide of tingling aftershocks down his spine and nerve endings. Unable to stifle a hiss, he repeated, wretchedly, ‘You _thought_ that _wasss_ the angelsss.’ 

Anathema’s voice grew defensive; he pictured her crossing her arms. ‘What?’ 

‘Has it ever been just _the angels_?’ Crowley flinched even more when, fumbling with his shaking hand to rub at the sorest spot, he entertained a muscle spasm instead. ‘Always the angels. The bloody angelsss. Have we all not been _angels_ once?’

She fell silent for a moment, and he tried to conjure an approximation of her pensive, calculating expression, bracing himself for the unavoidable follow-up.

When she spoke again, her voice was carefully neutral. ‘You mean it’s — that means you were _up_ _there_. Oh, of course you were. Stupid thing to say, I should have — ’ 

Crowley reclined marginally on the mattress, breathing heavily. There was sweat gathering at his temples and the nape of his neck, sticky and cold, and an odd cloying inertia creeping through the bones. He mumbled, ‘And now m’down here. And two and two’s four. Or _ssso_ I’m told.’

There was another silence. Muffled by the hypothetical carpet, dislocated by his splintered senses, he recognised the sound of footsteps heading somewhere. 

‘What was it like?’ she said finally, hesitantly; closer than she had been, perhaps hovering right over his bed. Perhaps frowning, or perhaps simply looking down with concern. ‘Falling?’ 

For some reason, even with the logical linear build-up, the question managed to catch Crowley off-guard, leaving him vaguely startled. 

 _Nothing much,_ he thought, dully. _Not compared to this._  

‘I …’ he bit at his lower lip, teeth drawing blood, and was momentarily thrown-off by the fact that he _felt_ it. Why would he feel it, something so banal compared to the raging decay of his entire cellular structure? Why was he even still conscious?

‘S’been long ago.’ 

‘Oh,’ Anathema said hastily, sounding sheepish. ‘You don’t want to—’ 

‘I’d _rather_ not,’ Crowley bit out. ‘If you’d —’

‘Of course.’ Something in the air turned palpably uncomfortable. Crowley tried to lift himself off the mattress and reposition once again, stifling another hiss on the way. As though having sensed his apprehension, Anathema did not make any further movement towards the bed.

‘Do you need something?’ she asked instead, worriedly. ‘Water? Something to eat? I can’t give you any more painkillers, I’m already pushing it with the doses as it is …’

‘If I could —’ he broke off and winced, trying vehemently to stifle the pathetic, entirely inadequate sob from wrenching itself out of his throat. A cry of physical discomfort, plainly, of an utter collapse of his body’s allegiance to its inhabitant, of the awful, _awful_ futility pressing down on his chest. He wanted to cry. He couldn’t, he couldn’t even properly  _breathe_ , but he wanted to either break down or lose consciousness, wanted a goddamned _break_.

‘Sleep. If I could — sleep.’ 

‘Of course,’ Anathema said again, and for a moment there was a shuffling of fabric and steps, and then a creak of the door. ‘Just shout if you need anything, okay? I’ll be close.’ 

Then there was another creak, and then there was no change in the light, and a momentary overwhelming confusion at the lacking evidence for his untrained brain. Did she go out? Did she stay somewhere? Was someone watching him? Or was he alone? 

And then there was a silence.

 

 …

 

It was the music that startled him. 

It was also first thing that came as a surprise: uncanny sound to break the half-dulled stagnancy he’d been swimming in for an indefinite time, which Crowley couldn’t remember to blame on anything in particular. Everything seemed unshaped and vague, as though half-forgotten, except for the music, but even the music was shaky.

He knew the tune, he’d heard it before, but he couldn’t find a name for it — 

And the second thing that struck him was that he was wearing his suit, stiff and slightly too warm where the collar dug into the feverish skin of his neck. He cleared his throat, blinking rapidly, head heavy with confusion as to why should it all feel so _eerie_ , what was it that didn’t make sense, did … did he _dream_ something?

And only after all that, was there the voice.

‘My dear, this … _tendency_ of yours is honestly beginning to border with narcolepsy. Mark my words, one day you’ll doze off in that hellish car of yours and — what was it you said? _Game Over, Insert Coin?_ ’

Slightly stunned still, Crowley perched himself up on his elbows, focusing on Aziraphale. 

The angel was wearing some particularly distressing combination of corduroy trousers with a starchy white shirt and vest, something that might have had a chance of looking scholarly and vintage if it wasn’t so blatantly, literally outdated. He sat in the blue armchair in the corner, a stash of yellowing papers perched in his lap as he looked at Crowley — eyes amused and narrowed slightly, wrinkled in the corners; a hint of a smug smile.

‘Sssince when,’ Crowley demanded, voice still sleep-hazed, letting one of his legs slide over the edge of the bed and dangle in the air, ‘d’you get my lines?’

‘Oh, I most certainly do not _get_ them,’ Aziraphale replied with a tsk, frowning theatrically. ‘Goodness, no. Rest assured, you’re as obscure as ever.’

‘Mm,’ Crowley said vaguely, blinking once again. For some reason, the uneasy hazy feeling did not subside, but rather melded into something tight and pulling within his chest. He felt oddly exposed, as though laid out for scrutiny, as Aziraphale failed to become distracted with any sort of text or other kind of matter, but rather continued _watching him_ — languidly, curiously, like a lazy cat regarding the mouse.

And the music, the odd music, that suddenly grew louder. Crowley gave a start when the gramophone emitted a sharp crack, twitching on the bed. 

Curious thing, he didn’t remember ever _keeping_ a gramophone in his room — his room that had become as inadvertently infected with Aziraphale as anything else belonging to or composing Crowley: tartan-patterned blanket flung over the sheets, an old lamp on the night table, this ubiquitous dust swirling in the light that pooled from the corridor. Even the music.

_What's the music?_

‘Oh, you can’t keep doing _that_ , either.’ 

On that note, Aziraphale rose to his feet and crossed the room, the papers scattered and forgotten on the armchair. Swallowing, still mostly disoriented, Crowley found himself fixating on the one page that flew to the floor as Aziraphale drew closer and hovered above the bed.

‘Doing …?’ he managed, forcing himself to look up, into the angel’s mocking eyes — _or is he simply smiling? And what’s the blasted music?_

‘Yes,’ Aziraphale said, nodding in mock gravity before he reached out to draw one of Crowley’s hands up and run his thumb against it, pulling. ‘This. Don’t think I don’t see it.’

‘You do?’ Even knowing that he was nowhere near to understanding the conversation; even knowing he was being coaxed or perhaps manhandled, Crowley let himself be dragged up to his feet as well, one of his legs brushing past Aziraphale’s.

There was the small matter of the height difference, and Crowley reclined his head so that there wouldn’t be too much to _bridge_ if it really came to it. 

A hazy, erratic thought: _why on earth would it?_

But the music was expanding, or maybe it was just spilling over them, filling the last unfinished spaces of this spectrum. If Crowley let his forehead fall to Aziraphale’s shoulder, well, that was because nothing else _could_ be done in that moment. If he clung, that was because everything was inviting to the clinging, and everything was in a strange way justified and purposeful — and his head was heavy, and the ground slightly treacherous beneath his feet —

Aziraphale frowned, leaning away, and a touch of worry flitted through his well-known face as he reached out and ran a thumb past Crowley’s cheek.

Crowley blinked, shivered, mute. _Something, something he didn’t remember —_  

‘You always get so _distant_ when you sleep too much,’ Aziraphale muttered, ‘and I keep wondering —’

And suddenly, Crowley coughed, a rapid startling fit of utter suffocation, dizzy all the way through, and when he tried to grip Aziraphale’s shoulder, he was met with thin air.

Staggering, sinking to his knees he managed to think, deliriously, _smoke? But Aziraphale wasn’t smoking; he was not in the mood for it, he only ever smokes when agitated or discontent and this is different, this is wet, choking wet and hot and burning and I can’t breathe —_

…

 

The blood, warm and thick, splashed the pillow as he coughed and coughed, struggling for breath and shaking with the effort of it all. His entire body was cold and covered with sweat, and yet every single bone seemed to be on fire, his _lungs_ were on fire: wet, cloy-scented fire that promised rotting and — 

A sudden sound, among the sticky darkness, a creak of doors being swung open. Suddenly scared, Crowley forced himself to hold back his breath, even as his entire body trembled with restraint.

Then a voice, rustling and cautious, whispered: ‘Crowley? Is everything alright? I heard a noise and —’

‘It’s fine.’ His head was swimming, his voice was hoarse and dreadful and everything was covered in sweat and blood, but the worst thing — the _worst_ thing was that he woke up at all, why would he have to wake up, it didn’t make _sense_. ‘I’m fine.’

Another creak, and what he could only presume, the continuation of darkness. 

He gasped into his pillow, still shaking.

 

…

 

The next time, it was because of the ceiling.

Specifically, its violent termination: the roof was torn open with a deafening roar to yield space to an assaulting glare of golden light: hot as it was poured onto Crowley along with a nebulous drizzle of splinters and parget.

Fumbling on the damp bedsheets, he tried to sashay away from the awful light, stunned with his suddenly regained sight, repelled by the approaching silhouette cutting out against the blaze: feathers and billowing white cloth, long hair and raised hands, and a terrible, beautiful voice: 

 _‘Greetings, Prophet! The Great Work begins!’_  

Coughing on the dust of crumbled walls and roof, pushed into the bedframe and shaking, Crowley choked out, ‘Go away.’

The angel ignored him, magnificent wings flapping in the air in rapid strokes, eyes upturned unto the burnished haze illuminating her face. _‘The Messenger has arrived!’_

Fighting his own lungs in a battle for breath, Crowley yelled, ‘I said, GO AWAY!’

 _‘Attend!’_ the Messenger intoned, her unbearable voice booming in the still-vibrating air. _‘My wrath is as fearsome as my countenance is splendid — submit to the will of Heaven!’_  

Crowley flinched even further away, and cowered in the bed’s remotest corner, coughing up some blood and wiping it with the hem of his pyjamas.

He mumbled, ‘Oh, please, will you _please_ fuck off — I already fucking _did_ and see where it’s left me —’ 

_‘From the Council of Principalities met in this time of Crisis and Confusion: Heaven here reaches down to disaster and in touching you touches all of Earth.’_

She moved closer, adrift on the scorching air, extending a luminous hand towards Crowley, her eyes burning white as she peered down at him. 

Crowley yelped, tumbling off the bed and to the floor as he tried to scramble away in a tangle of his own sheets. ‘Get away from me! Get away from — you _fucked up!_ I was not supposed to live through this! You fucked up!’

She kept trying to reach out and touch him with her fingers, the twitchy flaps of her wings disrupting the already ruined landscape of the room even further. Her voice was mellifluous, unnerving, _‘Thou hath been blessed —’_

Crowley ducked once again, crawling away from the bed and leaning against the wall. ‘Yeah, well, _blessed_ is not how I feel!’ he yelled out, breathing heavily.

She withdrew so sharply that he flinched again, involuntarily, at the sudden whiplash of sizzling air. Her voice grew stern _. ‘You have a message to deliver. All movement shall be ceased. All change shall be undone. Light will reign. Whisper into the ear of the World, Prophet, wash up red in the tide of its dreams, and billow bloody words into the sky of sleep.’_

Delirious, sweaty, splayed haphazardly against the wall and wheezing with each strained breath, Crowley mumbled, ‘D’you come up with these on your own? ‘Cause I think I’ve heard that one sssomewhere.’ 

_‘And lo! The Prophet was led by his secret dreams to the place of the Last Revelation …’_

‘Yeah, only m’not going anywhere, I’m not a bloody _Prophet_ , I’m going to sleep myself to death, d’you hear me, you stupid angel? This is _bullshit_ , it’s all bullshit. None of this was part of the deal!’ 

Heedless of his garbled muttering, the Messenger continued chanting her dull litany of narration, _‘Revision in the text: the Angel helped him … for he was weak of body though not of will.’_

‘I AM weak of will!’ Crowley snapped, struggling furiously to his feet. ‘I am the weakest of will! Leave my fucking weak will alone, I’m not the problem here! It was supposed to be different, the deal was different, and you failed so I’m _out_ —’

The steely reply was razor-sharp, instantaneous. _‘Interference is not possible.’_  

‘I’m not interfering!’ Crowley retorted, waving his fist in the air. ‘ _You_ are, you haven’t killed me!’

 _‘We have.’_  

‘Well, then you did a lousy job, okay?’ He broke off, panting heavily, then shut his eyes and started shaking his head fervently. ‘I mean — look at me! This is all wrong. All wrong. What am I even doing here? What is going on? I don’t understand —’

For the first time, the Messenger seemed to hesitate. She hung in the honey-coloured air, hovering among the steady rhythm of her wings.

Then, suddenly, she said, ‘ _HE left.’_

‘He who?’ Crowley echoed, tiredly, running a shaky hand through his wet hair.

Silence. Something in his tired mind clicked into place.

‘Wait — He?’ he muttered. ‘He … as in, _He_ , himself? Left … left what, Heaven?’

She stared down at him, eyes fierce as burning iron. ‘ _Yes_.’ 

There was a silence. Crowley stared at his right hand, frowning, trying to piece the information together with his weary, fever-hazed mind.

‘Well, where did He go?’ he managed finally, voice cracking. ‘And what does it have to do with … me? And Aziraphale? What does it have to do with the bloody world ending?’ 

 _‘He left,_ ’ she repeated, insistently, her expression unwavering.

And finally, the realisation dawned on Crowley. ‘Oh. He … _abandoned_ you.’

 _‘And did not return. We do not know where He has gone. He may never..._ ’ she trailed off, and then picked up, voice drenched with bitterness now, _‘We wait. We call for Him to hear us.’_  

‘Call for him to — _wait_.’ Crowley’s voice died in his throat. ‘No,’ he said, voice hollow. 

‘No,’ he repeated, louder, scrambling to his feet. ‘No, yes, that’s — that’s the reason, isn’t it? The reason for this entire shit-show, it’s goddamned blackmail, you’re holding all this, all the bloody world and all that lives in it, against — against … oh, _fuck you_. Honestly, fuck you. You’re all terrible, no better than all of them down there. For Somebody’s sake.’

Suddenly exhausted, he closed his eyes again, head falling backwards. ‘So what went wrong, then? Why did I live?’

Uncertainly, the Messenger said, _‘There exists scriptural precedent for resistance to The Smiting —’_

‘— which I was not informed about, thank you very much —’

_‘— tying into the rise of the Last Prophet, Last Message and Last Revelation.’_

‘Well, angel,’ Crowley sighed, rubbing at his wounded eyes and staggering unwittingly towards the bed, faintly surprised at his own legs’ inability to hold him upright, even in the vision, ‘then you’re gonna have to find yourself another Prophet, ‘cause I ain’t gonna deliver any messsage. Honestly, shoo. Shoo, angel, n’get me back to that previous dream. Not the one with the grey stuff, that one wasss bloody creepy, the one with the music, I _still_ dunno what’sss the music …’ 

 _‘I shall return in Time and the Prophet shall be ready,’_ came the answer, which the half-conscious Crowley found entirely inconsequential. Burrowing himself in his sheets, he coughed, and squinted up at the light.

‘I really wish you wouldn’t,’ he muttered. ‘M’pretty sure it’s illegal anyway, breaking and entering’sss what it isss. M’gonna sue you for the roof.’

Whether the Angel really departed or the dream simply collapsed into itself; he couldn’t be sure. All Crowley knew was sinking, sinking seamlessly into the hazy dissolving of light, back to the dark stagnancy.

 

 _(Anathema)_

 

‘Sit up. You’ll have to drink this.’ 

‘Dontwantto,’ Crowley countered, vaguely. His face was ashen and glistening from sweat, which, combined with the purple bruises, the bandaged eyes and the smears of red around his mouth, gave him the air of someone who, though having supposedly scrambled out of his grave, had quite forgotten to bring his living form along.

‘Yeah, I don’t care,’ Anathema said, brusquely, pulling Crowley up with just enough force to actually propel him against the pillows and reach for the glass from the night table. She pressed the cold glass against his blue-tinted lips, extending her other hand blindly to grope for a towel. ‘Drink up.’

Oddly pliant, Crowley obeyed, swallowing most of the liquid even as some of it ran down the corner of his mouth.

Anathema finally located the towel and wiped away most of the medicine and blood before helping Crowley lie back on the pillows. She could hear him breathe, a low wheezing sound — and simultaneously, precisely _what_ had alerted her that something was wrong when she’d returned to check on him, only to find him huddled in a small puddle of his own blood that had leaked from the ribs and mouth, trembling as he muttered something incomprehensible about music and angels.

She fetched another towel to place upon his forehead, and then braced herself. _Angels. Well, here we go. There’s been entirely too much of beating around the bush already._  

‘Okay,’ she said, nodding as she collected herself. ‘Okay, I know we don’t talk about this or whatever, but I’m bloody done with it, Crowley, and I _mean_ it. Where the _fuck_ is Aziraphale?’ 

Silence.

She drew a steadying breath which did little to steady the shaking of her blood-smeared hands in which she kept crumpling the used towel.

‘He walked out on you,’ she said, finally. The words hung in the suddenly heavy air, sounding morbid, sounding both improbable and disgustingly inevitable. ‘I can’t believe it. He’s a bloody _angel_ and he walked out on you.’ 

Crowley was facing away from her now, head ducked into the pillow and the crook of his shoulder, one of his hands fisted into the newly changed clean bedsheets. Trembling with something — fever or emotion, impossible to tell — and as drained and incapable as he was, he still managed to choke out, ‘He’s _safe_.’

A dead, indefinite silence fell as the meaning of what he had said hit Anathema with full force. She nearly dropped the towel.

Then she said, mortified, ‘He doesn’t … he doesn’t _know_?’ 

Crowley swallowed, his head pushed up into the pillow in a manner so decisive that it looked painful. 

Almost inaudibly, he said, ‘No.’ 

She closed her eyes, slumping on the chair. ‘Oh, _goddamn_ _it_ , Crowley.’

 _How do such things even happen_ , she thought, hugging her arms to herself: bloody towel, dirty hands and all, feeling suddenly piercingly cold. _How is this even possible? Heaven and Hell switching sides? One big apocalyptic joke?_

The silence stretched on between them for a moment substantial enough for Anathema to watch Crowley’s tension relent until he gave in with a sigh, letting his head loll to one side and fingers uncurl atop the sheets. 

‘Y’know,’ he said, somewhat incongruously, lips mashed against the pillow. ‘The Messenger. She said I’m a prophet now.’ 

There was a lump in Anathema’s throat. Damply, she said, ‘You’re an _idiot_.’

Toeing the line between an exhausted wince and a smirk, Crowley gave a noncommittal shrug of one shoulder. 

‘Maybe,’ he said. Then, after a pause, in a voice so wry and matter-of-fact that Anathema nearly flinched. ‘Couldn’t even get the job done properly, eh? Fucked up even dying. So I s’pose there is something in that.’

Slumping even more on her stool, Anathema stared at her lap. ‘Why on earth did you think it was a good idea? If you’d … if you’d told me, back when we met, what you were going to do … I would’ve told you it’s not. Crowley, honestly, I would have told you to cut the crap. That’s the … that’s the worst idea I’ve ever heard of, and I used to live with _Newt_.’ 

Another shrug, slighter this time. His mouth was wet, parted slightly, and Anathema wondered if the anaesthetic drug was starting kick in once again. And sure enough, his voice came out somewhat softened and sleazy when he next spoke, almost hissing, ‘Thought I could … endure it.’

‘You _are_ enduring,’ she pointed out, voice thick. ‘That’s the point. And it doesn’t answer —’

‘I’d endure it much better if it worked,’ he countered almost angrily, curling up into an even tighter coil. In this position, with this odd hissing voice, he suddenly didn’t look very _human_ anymore.

Mindlessly, Anathema moved closer. When she tried to reach over and fix the askew pillow, however, Crowley flinched away rapidly, cringing at the obvious pain the violent movement caused him.

Half-annoyed, half-pitying, she snapped. ‘What difference would it make? Managing to die for him, what on earth would that give you?’ 

And immediately after the words left her mouth, she regretted them, crushed with a multitude of possible answers: _Silence. Assurance that I’ve done my best. A sense of peace._  

She gave up on the answer when his breathing evened out. She rose to her feet, pushed the towel into her pocket, and collected the used mug from the night-table.

Having flicked the lights off, she lingered at the doors for a split of second, and thought she caught a muffled, quiet word, half-mumbled into the blue bedsheets: 

‘ _Dignity_.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay! Okay.
> 
> For any of you who has thought to themselves, _blimey, this seems familiar!_ – you're right and I'm very excited that you caught it.
> 
> For all that didn't, let me elucidate (and share a bit of my enthusiasm) – some of the major themes introduced in this chapter are drawn from an absolutely wonderful, heart-wrenching play by Tony Kushner which I have read (and watched) a few months ago and which struck me immediately as something I would like to thread into _Good Omens_ and re-write as some sort of a very loose, very introspective Apocalyptic crossover.
> 
> The play I'm referring to is obviously _[Angels in America](https://www.nationaltheatre.org.uk/shows/angels-in-america)_ and to anyone who haven't read or seen it, I recommend it with my whole heart. It's witty, funny, extremely moving. And I'm talking the 'I have been crushed by this for a week straight now' kind of moving. 
> 
> Now, what exactly did I decide to borrow for this story? When I first saw Prior, the main character, in one of the adaptations, fighting for life and grappling with the sheer cruel inevitability of being mortal, he reminded me so much of Someone Else, it struck me: _I'm going to make Crowley a prophet._
> 
> So here we are. And ... I hope you're enjoying it. <3
> 
> Oh! And I nearly forgot: if you're perhaps wondering _what's the music_ then ... I sort of want it to remain whatever you've imagined it to be – but a slightly parallel but different dream-scene featuring in _AiA_ made me think of [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WZ8j-X1hq1I).
> 
> There's also more literary Easter Eggs sneaked in here – because I'm a hopeless case.
> 
> Finally, I promise that Aziraphale is going to return quite soon. And not dreamed-up by Crowley at that.


	4. such deliberate disguises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Taken by surprise and momentarily heedless of any counter-reason, Crowley allowed his glasses to be taken off, heart leaping in his chest as Aziraphale muttered,_
> 
> _‘This one time — indulge me.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello darlings!
> 
> After a week of travelling through half the world to get back home and then sleeping it off/rekindling human relations/wandering about immersed in a tired haze of nostalgia, I'm back with my favourite chapter so far (which also happens to be the longest one so far.) So, yeah ... I just hope it's turned out okay! <3
> 
> Once again, thank you so so much for sticking around and reading, it means the world <3
> 
> – Leslie xx

_four_

**_such deliberate disguises_ **

* * *

 

 

_(Anathema)_

  

The day was uncharacteristically sunny: peachy afternoon light spilling over the slowly dying leaves and re-colouring the water in the pond; warmth belied only by the slithering cold of the wind. Anathema wrapped herself more tightly in her parka.

‘I still don’t understand,’ she said, casting a sideways glance at her companion, ‘what’s with all the … black?’ 

‘It’s called maintaining consistency,’ Crowley replied, unruffled.

He was dressed in a severely oversized black coat which fell down almost to his ankles, gloves, black boots and a tightly wound black scarf. The outer layer of his eye-bandages was removed and replaced with large, pitch-black glasses that hid most of the damage quite cleverly, excepting an angry red mark that cut out below Crowley’s left eye and ran all the way down his cheekbone.

Taking into account his gaunt carriage and unhealthy-coloured complexion, the overall effect was more than a little disturbing. 

‘Consistency?’ Anathema said, with a touch of incredulity. ‘Consistency’s why you insisted you look like a Death Eater?’

‘I look like a _Prophet_ ,’ Crowley corrected her, a notch irately. ‘What in hell is a Death Eater?’

‘It’s from a — ’ she hesitated. ‘Oh, never mind.’

A small boy on a bicycle whizzed past them, giving Crowley a curious side-eye and raising a cloud of dust that caused the demon to cough violently into the hem of his scarf. He tensed up momentarily, shoulders squared, clearly fighting his body for control. Anathema’s eyebrows drew together.

‘Okay. Let me get this straight. You’re a _Prophet_. Because an … an angel told you so, in a dream, and it was the same angel that convinced you that any of this noble sacrifice business was a good idea in the first place. Are you really, one hundred per cent _convinced_ that this … _crusade_ , you called it … is going to work?’ she said uncertainly. ‘I mean, is it really the best way to go from here?’

Crowley sniffled, hunching even more. ‘Point me another. Clearly there was something in the original plan of getting efficiently rid of me that didn’t sit well with them. Well, I say, might as well make some noise while I’m at it.’

‘I suppose,’ Anathema said, doubtfully. ‘But I don’t really see … a way for you to do it. I mean — it’s like you said, you can’t do … miracles. Or … anything else, really. Hate to be the spoilsport, Crowley, but you barely survived the trip from your car to this here bench. You’re very, _very_ sick.’

It was hardly an exaggeration: the process of escorting the limping Crowley from the car was taxing enough for Anathema to once again wish, with a vague sour feeling to her stomach, that human things could be resolved once and for all, and that Newt had stayed, as though ensconced in some cheesy narrative, to stick with her through and through, available to offer some sort of a backup support.

She bashed the thoughts quite quickly, but couldn’t help but remain slightly on edge.

‘Yeah,’ Crowley said, brightly. ‘But I still have the visions. Dreams. Annunciations. Whatever. All I have to do is wait until Miss Holy Messenger comes back for her Prophet and then I’ll demand a hearing.’

‘Miss Holy Messenger,’ Anathema repeated, sourly. ‘Your … wonderful advisor, that is. Straight-up infallible.’

‘And you know what’s the worst — or best, I can’t decide — thing about it all?’ Crowley went on, disregarding her intrusion and leaning back heavily on the bench. ‘That they’re _right_. I am something _else_. Something less, something gone wrong, whatever. I’ve spent years trying to deny it, but it would always, always crawl out in the end. I get too attached; I get … stuck. I’m neither here nor there, something like a middle ground. They’re right to try and use that.’

Anathema licked her lips, contemplating the statement, and then sighed in defeat. ‘Well, I guess I kind of see what you mean. And I … I’ve always liked that about you two, you and Aziraphale. That feeling of defiance.’

‘No,’ Crowley replied, growing pensive. The wind was pulling at the too-long strands of his hair, trembling over his forehead, mellowed by the afternoon light. Head bent like this, with his long nose and too-sharp cheekbones, he looked like something ancient and otherworldly, poorly concealed with a husk of human clothing and glasses, misperceived by its spectators. 

A Roman statue, perhaps, of a lonely forgotten god, coming to dust of old age with no one left to worship him. 

‘Not Aziraphale. Me, yes, sure. But not Aziraphale.’ 

‘He _was_ different, though,’ Anathema insisted. ‘I could see it. You were like … like mirror reflections, sort of. Two sides of the looking glass. Not a very good demon … not a very good angel.’

‘That’s not what I meant,’ Crowley said. For a moment, she thought he would elaborate, but he pursed his lips and breathed out through his nose instead.

Anathema bit her lip. ‘What _did_ you mean?’ she pressed, too curious to let go.

‘I meant — ’ He hesitated once again, leaning slightly forward, and in a momentary flash, she saw a flicker of his old self break out from the stony façade: a fluttery rapid movement, a spark of some unwitting, impulsive excitement for an idea he was trying to dress in words, a liveliness of an always-working mind coming through. 

Amazed, Anathema waited in rapt silence for whatever was to follow this rare moment of light.

‘See, it’s always been a bit different with Aziraphale. He was … ah, of course he’s a lousy angel, in more aspects of what being an angel entails than you could even imagine. He actually, properly hates most of the pricks up there. Gabriel, hell, he can’t stand the guy. And you … you would not find anyone who would generally give less fucks about things, I assure you. He’s just … so wondrously _awful_ at times, you know? Tiny things, like he would not care to stop and think _why_ pointing out a detailed little flaw in a book the review of which he was writing would sort of maybe upset the author. Very low tolerance for stupidity. That, that should have been Aziraphale’s motto: if you’ve been stupid enough to land yourself in a situation, have fun with the results. Only he wouldn’t say that, he’d say some cryptic nonsense about the ineffable paths of the Lord. A master’s degree in washing his hands of stuff he found inconvenient: he’d give you some absolute, excuse me, _crap_ , tell you to please kindly remove yourself from his immediate vicinity and you’d bloody thank him for it and stroll off with a curtsey. That’s _cunning_ , that is, Anathema. Hell itself has nothing on his absolute and utter lack of shame —’

He trailed off. Took a deep breath. Then he smiled: a brittle smile, endearingly joyous. ‘A bit of a bastard, yeah. Just enough. Just enough to make you _like_ him. I don’t think there ever existed a single person who knew Aziraphale and wasn’t just a bit fond of him.’

‘And … that’s really all that different from you?’ Anathema asked, in spite of herself. ‘All you’ve said, everything that’s opposite to what’s expected from an angel, but still … nice. It _is_ like you, going against the pattern. Only the direction changes.’ 

‘Yes, but see, that’s the thing. Not against it. He _is_ good,’ Crowley said, firmly. ‘He is — those are just minor things, little things, but underneath all it, there’s something so bright that you wouldn’t be able to look directly at it. I couldn’t. But you’d feel it, even from just being with him, this second-hand possibility of … of … _light_ , I don’t know, light coming after everything that’s horrid, not after the grand end of the world, but time after time, after the small horrors of existence. Something that would make an angel and then keep him from falling, a … certainty. Belief, I don’t know, that there is an order to things. Instead of the countless doubts, questions, doubts again. He was never like that. He could never be, he has too much of that light inside to ever doubt it’s genuine. That’s how he’s different.’

There was a silence. Anathema watched Crowley’s profile for a moment, lost in the vague impression of having witnessed something that came from a place she didn’t — shouldn’t — have the access to.

‘You know, I think you’re wrong,’ she said, finally. ‘I think he wouldn’t have spent millennia cooped up on Earth with you if he didn’t need another kind of light to keep him sane.’

Crowley sighed. ‘Anathema, you’re playing into the ingrained illusion of your human concept of miracles, that literally _anything_ is bound to have a silver lining,’ he said, voice bitter. 

‘It doesn’t. Take it from me, it _doesn’t_ — I’ve seen … I’ve … The fact I survived doesn’t _mean_ anything, except that I simply can be useful one more time. I don’t renounce anything: there is a reason for the dark thing to exist, in spite of what they say. I don’t believe Heaven is right. I don’t believe in the Apocalypse. Guess I don’t believe in Hell, either. Never really have. And it’s … a smart tactical move, having me as this world’s last counter-argument, because I _am_ an argument that there are no two sides. There’s the sides, sure, and there’s the millions of outliers who gather in between.’ 

‘And yet you’re certain Aziraphale will stand by his prescribed side?’ Anathema said, shaking her head. ‘In spite of all you’ve just said about him? You’re sure?’

‘He might be an idiot,’ Crowley replied, wryly, a hint of amusement creeping back into his voice. ‘But he’s not stupid.’

She thought she knew the direction of that trail of thought. ‘And you are?’

Crowley looked over at her, sullen mute ovals of dark glass and a clashing little smile underneath. ‘I thought we’d established that quite early on.’ 

Anathema chewed on her lip again, debating the odds of ruining something if she spoke out, and ultimately deciding to take her risk. ‘But if he _knew_ what you’ve done —’ 

He cut her off, nettled. ‘Ah, stop it.’

‘I just mean,’ Anathema said, defensively, ‘that all this a little presumptuous, don’t you think?’

‘Yeah,’ Crowley retorted, suddenly waspish, ‘and after six millennia you’ll allow me to presume to know him _slightly_ better than you. Just slightly, let’s not get overeager.’ 

‘So he just … wouldn’t care?’ Anathema said, dubiously. ‘He’d just let you do your thing because you were stupid enough to do it, is that what you’re saying?’

‘I’m saying,’ said Crowley, ‘that he’s better off as he is.’ 

‘Well, I doubt it.’ 

‘Oh, you _doubt_ it. Oh, I see. Doubt. Well, have fun with that, Anathema. Just remember, from that point, the only way’s down.’

‘God, why are you so —’ she cut off, frustrated. ‘Insufferable.’

He smirked once again. ‘See? _Now_ you put yourself in Aziraphale’s shoes, six millennia stuck with this.’

‘Well, maybe that’s how he’s still an angel, virtues of patience and such some,’ Anathema retorted, and Crowley barked out a short, hoarse laugh, which quickly evolved into another shuddering cough, marring the brief brightness of the moment. He bent over, wheezing for breath and unmoving. 

Alarmed, she ventured, ‘Are you okay?’

‘Fine and dandy,’ Crowley rasped out, reaching up clumsily to wind his scarf even more tightly around his throat.

‘Yeah, only you don’t look it,’ Anathema said, worriedly, stirring. She reached out to touch Crowley’s forehead, but he flinched away. ‘Is your fever rising? I think it is, we — we really should head back.’

‘No,’ Crowley said, firmly, edging even further away from her on the bench. ‘I’m sick of that burrow. And I need to think.’

_Passing out won’t help you with that,_ Anathema wanted to say.

But she didn’t manage to: in a flash, everything went wrong.  

_(Crowley)_

To say that the sky ruptured in blinding light to yield space for the angel to descend would be equal parts awfully pretentious and awfully accurate, Crowley decided as he narrowed his newly-seeing eyes, pushed up into the bench beside the frozen Anathema.

He moved with the swiftness of a snake, leaping to his feet and climbing up the bench. 

‘Greetings, Messenger!’ he yelled, voice nearly manic. 

The intimidating billowy creature with flapping white wings that hovered above them hissed, her bright eyes furious and fixed upon him.

_‘I have returned, Prophet, and not according to the plan.’_

‘Oh, I know,’ Crowley assured her. ‘See, _I_ did my homework. Scriptural precedent, you said. Now, I’ll give you scriptural precedent!’ 

‘Crowley, what the — ’ came a muffled, vaguely terrified sound from Anathema, who slid down the bench into a near-horizontal position, eyes transfixed on the Messenger. ‘What the _hell_ —’

‘Attend!’ Crowley shouted over her, waving his fist at the angel. ‘Angel, I shall wrestle you until I’m granted the entrance to Heaven and a hearing before the Holy Committee. I’m ready! _I will not let thee go except thou bless me!_ ’

The angel flapped in the air, alarmed, emitting some sort of an outraged shrill cry. 

‘You shall _what_?’ spluttered Anathema, but the incredulous exclamation was lost on Crowley as he leapt forward to clutch at the billowy robes before the Messenger managed to fly out of his reach.

They hung like that, the angel stymied and constrained by Crowley’s unexpected weight as he clung to her legs, shouting relentlessly, ‘ _I will not let you go except thou bless me_! I have a Message to deliver! To Heaven! _I will not let you go except thou bless me!_ ’

_‘I am the Holy Messenger of the Last Prophecy! I Will Not Be Compelled! I Will Not Be —’_

Suddenly, the light turned sizzling white, and the words were hushed in her throat. And when the whiteness receded, the Messenger was staring furiously down at Crowley, and behind her, there was a ladder engulfed in bright flames, descending downwards from the sky.

Voice gone flat and stiff, the Messenger uttered, _‘Entrance has been gained. Proceed to Heaven.’_

Suddenly terrified, Crowley let go of her legs and landed softly on the ground in front of the flaming ladder. Newly apprehensive, he uttered, ‘Can I come back? I don’t want to go unless …’ 

The angel bristled, fluttering in the air. _‘You have prevailed, Prophet. You … choose.’_

‘Holy shit,’ there came Anathema’s whisper.

 

…

 

He surfaced violently, blinded again, arms flailing in the lukewarm water as he gasped, trying to gain some semblance of balance. The ladder must have led straight into it, periwinkle-blue and oddly enticing, and he must have dived in, because he remembered floating, breathless, in an equable void of blurred senses and bizarre weightlessness, once again mysteriously absolved from awareness of the body.

In a moment of a ubiquitous sensation, a smoothly fractured consciousness was touching him from all sides, as though singing in the deafening lack of any sound, singing his name, the forgotten one, singing: _we know you, we know you, we know_ — 

And then he hit the air again and suddenly, all of the purpose came back, shocking and tangible, and Crowley saw the edge of the marble pool and swam forward, driven by an urgency of getting away from the illusion.

He climbed over the edge, his robes drying as he straightened, a mild jasmine-scented wind weaving through his hair, blowing it out of his face. He touched the cheekbones and his glasses reappeared, rebuilt particle by particle, dimming the unpleasant fairness of the landscape and making it perceivable.

Shape emerged: crumbled pillars, an ivory marble, and a lane of cedars and sculptures leading to a domed temple surmounting the hazy end, grass rising meekly into marble stairs. 

Ungainly, Crowley took off towards it, eyes scanning the mute sculptures as he went: all of them were angels, all of them lacking something — heads, hands or wings, crushed by time and made frail.

As he neared the dome, he saw there was no gate or door: just an archway yielding the view of a long dining table, cluttered with old paper and miscellaneous brass instruments. Behind the table, there were six of angels.

And in front of it all, peering straight at him, stood the Messenger, her shrewd eyes brightening as he came into view — all of the preceding fury seemingly brushed aside.

‘Fellow Principalities,’ she said, and her usually-tinny voice sounded normal at last, almost ordinary when surrounded with all the brass and marble, ‘here comes the Prophet.’ 

Crowley’s heart gave a rapid tug at her address, and his eyes scanned the table once again — but no, no. _No Aziraphale_ , he thought, equal parts relieved and disappointed. 

‘Is that _him_?’ said one of the remaining Principalities, sceptically, squinting in Crowley’s general direction. ‘And what _is_ he doing here, pray tell?’ 

‘I’m here,’ Crowley cut in, hastily, before the Messenger could proceed with any answer that would deviate from his intention, ‘to demand a hearing. In fact, no, wait — I’ve already been _granted_ a hearing. I have a message for you.’

The same angel who’d spoken before raised his eyebrows. ‘And what message would that be, Prophet?’ 

‘My name is Crowley,’ Crowley said, with pressure, staring the angel down (or so he hoped) as he drew nearer to the table, ‘and I’m _not_ a Prophet. Listen, I … I know. Cards on table, I’ve figured it out.’

Silence. Crowley drew a shaky breath. ‘I _know_ why you’re pushing for the world to end now, and I … I think you’re wrong. He’s not going to come back. Not like this.’

The silence persevered, spiked with a slight increase of attentiveness as the angels all looked at him, faces calm and unfathomable.

He drew another steadying breath, and went on, ‘And even if He wanted to ... If He ever wanted come back, if after everything that will happen he’d return only to see … how much life His abandonment will have destroyed, and that all his departure caused was a choice between different kinds of death … I think it’s pointless. She, the Messenger, she’s said that _interference is not a possibility_ , but all you do is interfere. Maybe He wanted to let you choose, for the first time, without consequence. Without … scrutiny. Just freedom, only proper this time. I cannot understand why you choose to destroy. Change is change, things will go on regardless. Let them be. That’s … that’s my only message, the only one I’m going to deliver. Godspeed, wherever He’s going. And you ... just think. _Think_ of what you have.’

In the thunderous silence that followed, the Messenger cleared her throat.

‘Thus spake the Prophet,’ she said, gravely. 

‘Progress cannot be halted,’ said one of the angels, the same one as before, his onyx eyes fixed upon Crowley, ‘and change cannot be undone: once put into motion, no time can be reversed. The end will come.’ 

‘Didn’t come the last time, did it?’ Crowley snapped back. ‘So you have your … bloody scriptural precedent, too. Just _listen_ to yourself. All you want is an instruction, right? Well, then why wait for God. Take it from me. _Stop_.’

‘Everything is done already.’

‘Then do it again!’ Crowley yelled. ‘Make a fucking miracle!’ 

‘Prophet,’ the Messenger spoke out, sternly. 

Chest heaving, shaking from fury, Crowley spat out, ‘Alright. Have it your way. But then — then _I_ still want my blessing. I want back.’

‘Back?’ another one of the angels, from a remote corner of the table, echoed. ‘You do not _have_ to endure to the end, Prophet. What lies ahead is only rot and decay, and the everlasting night, desiccation of purpose and meaning and drainage of consciousness. Your contribution has been noted, the bargain has been kept, you can be spared —’ 

‘Yeah, but I don’t want to.’ He could hardly comprehend the steadfastness of his resolve, but perhaps for the first time in his existence, Crowley understood what conviction felt like.

‘I _know_ all that’s waiting down there is just death. But still. Still. Bless me anyway. I’ll stick with this world to its end. I choose to. Spare Aziraphale, like you promised, don’t you _dare_ let him see what goes down. But leave _me_ alone, bless me, whatever. Let me go. I’m not picking sides.’

‘The choice is yours, Prophet,’ the Messenger said from beside him, her voice vaguely rueful. She drew closer, hands outstretched, and touched Crowley’s temples. This time he didn’t flinch, didn’t move, just pursed his lips and accepted the touch. ‘Is it final?’

Crowley clenched his jaw. ‘Yes.’

‘Well then,’ she whispered. ‘ _I bless thee_. Farewell.’

As he felt the touch dissolve, Crowley nodded, and — without looking at the table of angels — turned on his heel, and stepped across the archway and into the cedar lane.

_I’ll go, don’t you worry,_ he thought, oddly certain that she had heard him, and knew what he had meant, _I just have make sure first._

_Farewell,_ came the dwindling echo of her voice in his thoughts.

 

…

 

The new vision burst upon him warm and succulent with sensation, and Crowley swayed on his feet.

The landscape was familiar and yet not: a lush orchard of peach and orange trees, bent with ripe fruit, idle in the heavy burnished sunlight. Leaves trembling occasionally, a sweetness in the air, sweetness so intense that he felt dazed from it: an earthlier, physical, infinitely more alluring Eden.

And somewhere among the trees, sprinkled with leaf-sieved sun, there was an old wooden bench, and on the bench, facing away from him, someone was sitting.

A pristine uniform and odd whiteness to his shape: but there was no mistaking. Crowley could hardly disagree with the violent tug in his ribcage as he moved towards the bench like a cat towards warmth, desperate to _get closer, get closer—_

Nearing it, he stopped. Collected himself. Finally said, in a vaguely resigned, vaguely mocking voice he’d almost forgotten how to conjure,

‘To think that I thought I’d have any trouble finding you.’

Slowly, as though reluctantly, Aziraphale raised his eyes. ‘My my,’ he said, and his voice alone seemed somehow unendurable, ‘I must be becoming predictable.’

‘Nah,’ Crowley said, suddenly smiling, in spite of everything, _smiling_ like there was suddenly a reason to try and breathe again, ‘I just forgot how predictable you’ve always been.’

With the subtlest of eye-rolls, Aziraphale sighed and looked away, somewhere into the orchard. ‘Must you always be so biting, Crowley? Must you _really_? Don’t you ever tire of thinking up those little jibes? A fun pastime, isn’t it, snickering to yourself as you find clever new ways to snark at me.’

‘Spot-on, angel,’ Crowley said brightly. Then he hesitated.

‘Another funny thing,’ he said, voice soft. ‘I have _prevailed_ , as your very pleasant colleague has put it, and yet nothing changes. Where’s the justice in that?’ 

‘Justice is Heaven’s propaganda,’ Aziraphale said dispassionately, still staring vacantly ahead. ‘Always have been. Have to lure you in with something, I suppose.’

‘Yeah, but I thought the _something_ was meant to be the ever-lasting bliss.’

Aziraphale shrugged. His gaze was distant, empty. ‘To each their own, I suppose.’ 

Crowley frowned. Something didn’t add up. ‘What’s with the nihilism?’ he ventured.

Aziraphale let out a long breath, ‘In present circumstances, it feels more apt than anything. Or would you believe me if I said you’ve finally corrupted me?’ 

‘Yeah, no, pull the other one,’ Crowley ensured him. Drifting even closer, he sat down cautiously on the opposite end of the bench, wary as not to come too near and simultaneously yearning for contact, something physical for a change, inconceivably fascinated with the lack of distance between them.

‘And what about the Committee?’ he asked, half-to buy himself some time, half-out of genuine curiosity. ‘What are they trying to do, if it’s not just about ending the world? _“Cease the Progress”,_ that’s not … that’s not even possible. Even they must know it.’ 

‘Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure,’ Aziraphale replied, sourly. ‘I’m not sure they feel obliged to know _anything_ for certain. And as to what they _want_ to do? Bring Him back, I would say. Or perhaps simply understand why He has left at all.’

‘Well, how do _you_ think?’ Crowley asked, quietly. Aziraphale seemed terrifyingly ephemeral here; as though half-flesh, half-light — more like the Holy Messenger than the stuff of Crowley’s memories. It made him feel even more uprooted and misplaced: clumsy, bodily and shrouded in some foul fumes of earthly rot. 

‘Me?’ Aziraphale said, and suddenly his voice was quiet and uncertain, entirely unlike him. Crowley looked up sharply, startled out of his vision of ethereality by the shadow that crossed the angel’s features.

‘I … I don’t know. I think maybe He couldn’t bear it.’

There was a silence: just as frightening as Aziraphale’s voice, and Crowley wished desperately to put an end to it and force the one last moment of normality between them, before the time was up. _Please_ —

‘Well, at least you finally get a proper bite of this,’ he blurted, aiming for something _lighter_ , more bearable. ‘The ever after and whatnot. Ethereal everlasting … effable. Or no, wait, it was the other one. Ineffable. Still, maybe that’s the _point,_ maybe this is where it all becomes clear?’

Aziraphale sighed again, picking up a tangerine that lay at his feet and turning it over studiously in his fingers. ‘Somehow,’ he muttered, ‘I doubt it.’

‘ _Doubt_?’ Crowley repeated, quite mindlessly, staring at the tangerine. A funny thing, to have his eyes once again, only to have them fall upon this improbable garden and the same burnished light from which all trouble had emerged, years — days — eternities ago. 

‘No, angel. No — doubt’s the way it all goes down. And _down_ is what I mean — take that from me, that’s not for you. Angels don’t doubt.’ 

And at this, for some reason, Aziraphale _did_ finally smile — a weird smile, slightly lopsided, much like a mirror of Crowley’s typical demeanour.

Rather caustically, he said, ‘For that, I’m afraid it might be too late already.’

Something in the phrase struck Crowley as ill-fitting: to the sentiment, to the pattern this entire sequence — dream or not-dream — should follow. A bittersweet farewell perhaps _was_ what he was after; a bitter lapse of faith, not so much. 

‘Too late? Too late for _what_?’

He focused back on Aziraphale, pensive with the now half-peeled tangerine still in his hands. Even from his pointed distance, Crowley could pick up the vague scent: dizzying, sweet. Oh, but he will miss _this_ as well, those past days of blissful hedonism, sticky with fruit juice, noisy at nights, thick with drowsy, sun-drenched mornings, hazy with red wine. All this _life_.

‘Just toss it out of your … your justified vernacular, is all,’ he said, trying not to let his throat constrict, watching Aziraphale’s familiar profile now: the somewhat snubbed slope of nose, the perpetual slight frown, stubborn line of mouth; half-remembering the way sun scattered shadows on the same skin in a sizzling Torcello or a blue-lit Stockholm, repeatedly and treasurably. Millennia ago, now, and yet it could have been yesterday. Could have been tomorrow.

Again this awful feeling, tight in his stomach, and Crowley couldn’t but look away.

‘Oh, but that is the problem, my dear.’

Aziraphale’s voice was quiet and matter-of-fact, slightly detached, slightly condescending — _familiar_.

‘I can do anything _but_ , what with you not being here. Perhaps it shows the most in how I finally understand the actual meaning: to _doubt_. Crowley, I never did. You, you of all people should know that. And yet, yes — _to doubt_ , because what else is left to do when world’s order, so meticulously amassed and perfected, abandons reason and goes to dust. Nothing but doubt.’

He smiled again, and again, his smile was mirthless. ‘I had never known I’ll come to saying it, but there’s no way around it. There’s an end even to lying to oneself, turns out. I barely even understand it, Crowley. But there’s no sense anymore, in anything. And I … I miss you _unspeakably_.’

Something cold and rigid and clashing blasphemously with the mellow garden had writhed into Crowley’s ribcage unbidden and homed there, tightening around the heart as it cut into the barely joined tissue. The ache became too palpable to disregard: and Crowley nearly reached over, nearly _touched_.

But he held himself down, enfolded within the vague tepid nausea of shame whelming up from his throat, so well-known, so often-endured. _Oh, you don’t get to say that_ , he wanted to throw at Aziraphale, or maybe whisper, _you don’t get to be like that, not after it’s all done and I can’t speak my part._ _Keep yours, play along. Be oblivious. Spare me in the end. Spare me like they didn’t._

He braced himself, shut his eyes and grew rigid, inhaling the cloying air and trying to remember stability. When he spoke, his voice was level, flippant enough to be passable for normal, ‘The absence makes the heart grow fonder, eh?’

Aziraphale let out a breathy laugh, reclining on the bench and closing his eyes against the sun. ‘Fonder than it was _already_?’ 

There was something simply unbearable in his voice, something like genuine incredulity, and Crowley found himself stuck. He fixated on the tangerine that lay undone in Aziraphale’s lap, oddly alluring with the unwittingly squeezed glistening juice, oddly disturbing. Profane.

_What are you doing to me?_ Crowley thought, dazedly, and then caught himself.  No, a wrong perspective: dreams within dreams, whispers of the deeper mind — all his, all drawn from the centre. _This is all me. What am I doing to myself?_

Aziraphale’s voice brought him back, ‘On a different note, what on earth are you wearing?’

Flooded with relief, Crowley refocused on the present illusion: the angel’s voice was casual once again.

He cracked a brittle grin. ‘Shut up. It’s all part of the performance — method acting, let’s say. It just wouldn’t do to drag the Flash Bastard up the ladder to the Big Up Above now, would it? I needed a whole new persona.’

‘ _Persona_?’ Aziraphale said, sounding amused. He pushed the tangerine open but didn’t eat it, instead smearing a bit of juice across the palm of his hand with the thumb. Crowley found himself watching the movement in rapt attention. ‘A new _persona_ , he says. Oh well, I suppose that makes sense. Always just a bit too keen on keeping up appearances, weren’t you?’

There was something decisively peculiar about the turn of phrase, Crowley decided, abandoning the violated tangerine for a moment to look up. Aziraphale sounded distracted again, by far less occupied by the conversation than he was.

And then it came him: dizzying as any revelation, yielding a new lens to behold. Aziraphale, _this version_ of Aziraphale, considered him a figment of _his_ own imagination, a projection no less improbable and dreamlike than Crowley’s feverish musical interlude a number of days prior — and that, coincidentally, would be the sole explanation, the one space of possibility, for any of this careless, dreadfully outspoken affection to have taken place.

Somehow, inexplicably, the realisation soothed Crowley enough to allow him to unclench and lean back on the bench, letting out a breath. He glanced sideways at the angel, oddly moved: _same old, in the end. You could never tell which part was for show, did you?_

The vision’s familiarity anchored the steady feeling in him. Even in the whitely uniform and the eerie peach-tinged light, there was something wonderfully unkempt and ruffled about Aziraphale: the indecisively curling hair, perhaps, or the faint impression of trussed-up wings hovering at the periphery of perception. _Not quite your proper angel._ Crowley smiled. 

Aziraphale must have sensed the shift in tone somehow, because he glanced over and, after a while, mirrored the expression. Quite out of the blue, he reached over, his right hand — still juice-smeared and sweet-scented — travelling up to Crowley’s face. Taken by surprise and momentarily heedless of any counter-reason, Crowley allowed his glasses to be taken off, heart leaping in his chest as Aziraphale muttered, 

‘This one time — indulge me.’

Crowley inhaled, slightly disoriented by the suddenly cleared and brighter light. And he _still_ didn’t cotton on to the fatal error — oblivious until it was suddenly too late and all there was left to see was the violent horror painted all over Aziraphale’s face. _A glitch. A pattern’s flaw. A reminder._

‘Don’t —’ Crowley started, frantic, just as Aziraphale stammered,

‘Your — your eyes, what — _what’s_ _happened_ to you?’

_I fell apart_ , Crowley thought, fatuously, a sinking feeling in his stomach. _I’m vanishing. Rotting, I’m rotting all over. Thank your heavens you cannot feel the smell._  

Mysteriously unperturbed by the sickening nature of his malformation, Aziraphale touched the charred skin by Crowley’s left brow with his hand; a brush of fingers so cautious and attentive that Crowley couldn’t help but shiver.

Unable to stand the suddenly mournful silence, he babbled, ‘Depending on how you think of it, everything and nothing. I’m dying, that much is certain. Quite an … odd thing, but once you get used to the whole flesh-into-dust business, weirdly endurable. Trust me, I’ve been through wor — ah, but anyway, this is just a stage, as any other. And I … I think I’m changing in the process, too, you know? Accidentally — it’s always bloody accidental, isn’t it — but I’m not quite what I used to be anymore. Not an angel, Someone forbid. Anything rather than an angel. No, this is … this is nameless.’ 

Suddenly nervous, he smiled. Aziraphale’s hand had lingered at the side of his face — and impulsively, because _what, what on Earth was there left to hold him back?_ — Crowley took it in his own hands, rigidly cold in comparison. 

_Aziraphale’s hand_ : soft fingers, unscathed skin. Warm as it was living. _Blessed_ , supposedly, and it had always felt like that. 

‘You’ll think I’m bonkers for saying this, but it feels _right_. I swear. I was always such shit at being what they wanted me to, you must have —’

He trailed off. Well, there were borders both to lying _and_ honesty. 

‘At no disadvantage to you, I’m sure,’ Aziraphale said meanwhile, fiercely, almost startling him. Crowley looked up, forgetting briefly about the repulsive eyes-not-eyes. And this time, at least, Aziraphale didn’t flinch. Far from it, there was this terrible fondness, again, in his expression.

‘There are some that would argue,’ Crowley countered, not entirely jokingly, looking down. Turning Aziraphale’s hand in his, he traced soft cold patterns across its lines and wrinkles, thoughtful. If he could, he would press a kiss to the open palm, just to feel the beating pulse against his mouth. Life against death.

And without another thought, he did as much, nuzzling the angel’s wrist even as there came a twitch of surprise in response.

‘I think it’s true, in a way,’ Crowley murmured vaguely. ‘I know I’ve dreamed up most of it — _all_ of it, maybe. But I think I _am_ some sort of … of a Prophet now. Kinda shit one, true, but … hey, at least that’s a recurring motif. Consistency’s good, I’ve always maintained.’

Then, after a while, ‘I have a prophecy to deliver, a prophecy of _inadequacy_ — which comes too late to serve its purpose, too skewed to be heard, in a world too senile to understand. Yeah, I — I think it’s a good one, as far as bookends go. I didn’t want to, but maybe I _had_ to be the witness, kick-start it all, just by stumbling one last time.’

He lifted his eyes, keeping Aziraphale’s hand cradled in his, searching for the last precious look of forbearing reproach in those bright, blasted familiar eyes before all the light reserved for him died. The vision was dissipating around him — he could feel it in how heavy his limbs and bones became, how full and wet his lungs, how muddled the colour of Aziraphale’s hair in the wind. 

But instead, as it went with awakenings, he was met with a sharp clash, this time hardly even rooted in himself. 

Aziraphale was staring at him, eyes transfixed upon his face, focused and sober as he ought not to be — terrifyingly present gaze, bright as anything, shrewd across the layers of dream-weaving, _seeing through_ instead of letting go, and for a split of second, Crowley felt scared.

But then the decay was completed and everything melted into darkness.

 

…

 

He came around gasping desperately for breath, his lungs on fire, again the wet hot fire, drenched in cold sweat. Thrashing, he hit his head on something vaguely leathery, groping around in a frenzy. He was moving, everything was moving, _where’s up and down, why can’t I see, why can’t I breathe, if only I could see_ —

‘—wley!’

He finally understood he was being shouted to, a frightened shrill familiar voice, and finally categorised the odd jerky motion around him, the weird noise, the smooth leather. The Bentley. He was in the Bentley, laid down across the backseat, shaking from fever as Anathema drove.

‘Where are we going?’ he rasped out, voice so hoarse it could have belonged to anyone rather than him. ‘What’s happened?’

‘You collapsed,’ Anathema’s voice was shaking, and he could hear her fumbling with the gearstick. ‘I don’t know why — the fever’s back, but if you just try to — we’ll be at the cottage in a moment, just please, please don’t die, keep it together —’

‘Did it happen?’ Crowley demanded, cutting her off, and trying to hoist himself up on the seat. Sounds seemed to be swimming around him in a ceaseless vague blur, perception going in and out of focus. He felt as though he was calling into a deep well, echoes detached from the source, bodiless and bodily at the same time. ‘Did I not … Or did I do it? There was an angel, I wrestled an angel, the whole damn jury out, too, and there was — there was — and Aziraphale, in the garden, I —’

His breath hitched in his throat as he fell back onto the leather, wheezing. 

He heard, as though drifting from the void, Anathema’s tremulous voice, ‘Please, … please don’t die on me. Don’t you _dare_ die on me.’

 

…

 

Somewhere up above, an angel stood stricken.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So ... what do you think? (:
> 
> (Fun fact — and bear in mind that this is absolutely silly — when I'd first read _Good Omens_ not so long ago, I was also quite lazily rewatching _Doctor Who_ as a way to fend off the stress factor connected with the upcoming uprooting of my life and due to that, for some reason, my brain decided to adapt Clara Oswald's voice to serve as Anathema's. And it hasn't receded since, I'm stuck with Clara's northern accent snapping at Crowley.)


	5. this broken jaw of our lost kingdoms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The reply was swift and sharp. ‘I tried to tell you.’_
> 
> _It was like a whiplash, a cold sting of unbearable, damning awareness, and Aziraphale deflected further into his half-righteous anger, trying to shield himself with it, lessen the blow. He raised his eyebrows, and said, coldly, ‘Oh? You tried? Oh, that’s rich, Crowley: you tried to tell me.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. This is more or less the last of the Angsty chapters. We're slowly getting there. We are.  
> 2\. This is [the song for it](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vk8PUK56Clc). I realised I've neglected the song-thing last time. This time it's a little bit about the lyrics, too.  
> 3\. I love you all dearly for sticking around.  
> 4\. I'm considering adding a smaller, happier post-scriptum-epilogue at the end, so that the chapter number will be seven, because mid-rewrites, chapter 6 (my second favourite) is ... ah, _growing_.  
>  5\. For now, enjoy a fresh foray into Aziraphale's mind, for a change.
> 
> Love, Leslie xx

**_five_ **

**_this broken jaw of our lost kingdoms_ **

* * *

 

 

_(Aziraphale)_

 

He came around bleary and aching, head heavy with a ubiquitous unrelenting noise, senses stymied and faraway. He tried to move and almost cried out in pain, only he couldn’t find his voice: something has stolen it away, leaving only roughness in its wake.

He opened his eyes and they hurt, unspeakably: roughly assaulted by the light; he inhaled and his lungs hurt, filled with air that was scorching hot and rough like fine-grained sand. His entire physical body seemed _wrong_ , as though unfit for him, unpleasant and unaccustomed, somehow damaged.

When sight came back to him, he saw that he was lying face down on parched ground, hot under his bloodied, scratched-up hands. He felt his wings broken and heavy upon him, and sticky wetness on the sides of his head: when he touched his temples, his hand came off red-stained as well.

‘Where _am_ I,’ Aziraphale croaked, his voice sounding foreign and odd. 

There came no answer, but he became aware of the sense of being watched, relentlessly, by something malignant and predatory; hidden beyond sight, waiting to attack, something rather than someone, and yet still conscious and focused upon him. Something unused to assuming shapes or rather no longer caring for shapes; half-shadow half animal, evil, _evil_. Curious, unsure if it could take the new opponent.

 _You’re down_ , came its terrible voice, filling the silence in an unbearable shriek. _Didn’t you want to be? All these words of doubt, all these days of thinking? All the desires, deep-rooted desires as choking as blasphemy, didn’t you want to be down, with him, damned with him, free and profane?_

Aziraphale shut his eyes, tensing on the ground and inhaling sharply. He felt something enormous and inexplicable, deep in his core. What was it, despair? Grief?

Yes, grief, so senseless and overwhelming that he could not make sense of it, crushed under it and smothered. What had caused it? What was he grieving? _Who_ was he grieving?

_Didn’t you want to Fall?_

There were ghosts moving around him: bright and dark, winged and fleshly, footsteps. Someone kneeling on the ground with a startled breath, someone different from the evil watcher, whispering, ‘what is it?’

 _I don’t know_ , Aziraphale wanted to say, but found no voice in him. _Where are you? I can feel you. I can’t see you?_  

Was it his grief? Was it his landscape? Or did it belong to the other one, the milder shadow-ghost, somewhere on the edge of perception, speaking in intelligible whispers before leaving, dissolving. 

 _Wait_. Somehow, there was a thought, even before recognition, _Crowley, wait._

Aziraphale opened his eyes in a sharp flash of awareness, and the vision fell apart.

 

…

 

The wind picked up, mild and unobtrusive as ever, ruffling the fine needles of the cedar trees. Aziraphale shut his book with a sharp sound, unable to stand the forced illusion of focusing on the text anymore. 

Time in Heaven had always been an elusive thing: either non-existent or slow enough to trick you into believing it is. Warped, wrapped around itself, turned over: no sequence to be discerned or direction to be chosen, unless you paid an enormous amount of attention to it — and even then no certainty could be conjured.

The end could have been in the future or well past them, Aziraphale had no way of knowing. Whatever was there to continue, had ended somewhere long before. All he could tell was this closely locked-in terror of the present: a terrible consciousness of a fault. Everything else had been halted, deceased, stifled morbidly. None of the it mattered, either. _Desiccation of all sense_ , as Eliot would put it. Nothing remained; just a void, by now almost habituated.

Aziraphale had always been a man-shaped being of conviction, never doubt, and master of perseverance: if only by sheer stubborn unwillingness to change, he would remain in his metaphysical spot of choice for centuries on end.

Disturbance of any kind was bound to cause ripples.

Perhaps inevitably, he swiftly became obsessed with the two dreams, replaying and reinterpreting them — sometimes as a warning vision of the demise that lay ahead of him unless he stopped such blasphemous thought-endeavours; sometimes a two-part, climax-lacking allegory of everything that had happened through his entire existence; sometimes a subliminal message from some outer force, trying to _tell_ Aziraphale something. 

He had Fallen. But he hadn’t, not really. He’d hallucinated _a_ Fall, preceded by a strange, dreamlike meeting with a morbid-looking sickly Crowley claiming to be a prophet and bidding Aziraphale some sort of a rueful goodbye entirely unlike the real thing (cold words and handshakes in the park, and it still stung, even here, even now), which served to do nothing except pain and confuse him. 

Aziraphale bristled. What was the point of this vision? Of _either_ of them?

It didn’t even make sense, that first one, didn’t even seem logical — Crowley would never — he wouldn’t …

But the thing was, Crowley had always been the sneakier one, always one glib step ahead of Aziraphale. And truth be told, if he wanted to, he _would_ have outsmarted him by sheer anxiety-ridden cunning alone, make him stumble and fall by some pitiful mistake or lack of focus. The whole point — the whole entire big point of Crowley — was that he never did, and never _would_. All the talk of cleverness and deceit, but Aziraphale had never known Crowley to be anything less than fair in their dealings with him.

And so Aziraphale had made do, and made do _well_ , by stubborn remaining where he was: a habituation of a mind-set, ever-present wherever the physical location happened to be. Progress by stagnation. 

So could it really be what it seemed to be, as improbable and striking? Could he have let himself be outsmarted at last, only in the other direction? Saved instead of thwarted, spared an explanation instead of disturbed by it?

The answer, in present state of matters, was unattainable: he had no way of questioning Crowley while enclosed in Heaven, not unless he came back down, risking more than would ever be reasonable based off a half-transparent, eerily-sentimental dream.

_(‘Depending on how you think of it, everything and nothing. I’m dying, that much is certain. Quite an … odd thing, but once you get used to the whole flesh-into-dust business, weirdly endurable.’)_

Violently, Aziraphale leapt off his park bench and stormed down the cedar lane.

 _I shouldn’t have left, anyway_ , he thought, flurried. _Not without forcing him to say what in Hell was wrong._

Then, _and blast them all anyway, let Gabriel have fun with explaining._

 

… 

 

Earth was much easier to navigate, he’d always thought, pleasantly tedious with all its little physical laws and phenomena. Finding Adam in Tadfield was incomparably easier than remaining sane in the blend of his own morbid awareness of their situation’s direness, and Crowley’s fresh hell of jittery panic. And that was finding a hitherto-never-encountered demonic eleven-year-old.

Finding someone whose presence you’d learned to recognise through six millennia was incomparably easier in turn.

 

…

 

As though in a skewed old mirror, he was sitting on a garden bench: hunched under the overgrown rose bushes, looking disturbingly brittle in a mismatched bundle of dark wispy clothes, thinner than Aziraphale had ever seen him, bespectacled, unmoving. He looked older than he’d ever looked: like he was very cold, very sick and very lonely. He sat with his head downcast, breathing slowly with visible difficulty, his gaunt long-fingered hands laid one atop another in his lap. He could have been sleeping; could have been simply thinking of something.

In any case, he did not seem to take notice of Aziraphale approaching, nor did he react to the intrusion of the angel’s shadow upon him. It wasn’t until a crack of drying leaves betrayed his presence that Crowley turned up his face — and Aziraphale held his breath, stricken. 

‘Look here,’ said a voice, known and foreign at the same time, familiar and unforgivably reduced to its own hoarse imitation — rendering Aziraphale entirely speechless in turn. ‘As much as Anathema keeps on harking about it, I have no heightened spider senses or whatever, okay? So if you feel like maybe introducing yourself, whomever might you be, feel free to do so.’ 

‘I,’ said Aziraphale, feeling nearly choked, ‘am the stupidest man that has ever existed. I cannot even — ’

Everything seemed to come to a rapid, jarring halt. Crowley’s expression went slack, his breath hitched with an-almost hiss; and so did the rest of the garden. The next word came out breathy, scarcely any more than a meek whisper, ‘What — ?’

‘Crowley,’ Aziraphale said, voice shaky.

Crowley turned rigid: strained shoulders, stony face, no sound at all, until, ‘Aziraphale,’ he croaked out, sounding frightened. His voice was rustling, like dry paper, seeming to belong to a human man with lungs mauled by life-worth of smoking.

Then, abruptly, violently, he choked out, ‘What the _fuck_ are you doing here.’

‘Crowley, you —’

‘No. _No_. Fuck them, fuck them, they were supposed to keep you safe, they were supposed to — this is not what I agreed to, this is not — _fuck them_ , fuck them all, I don’t understand, this is not how — ’ 

The words spilled together into a near-wheeze and suddenly he choked, withering, nearly collapsing: blue-skinned, gasping for breath. Leaping towards the bench, Aziraphale managed to hold him up seconds before he fell to the ground.

And all at once there he was: with an armful of Crowley and a dizzying echo of the sheer number of similar sloppy collisions —

 _Crowley, drunk and clumsy, toppling forward as he aimed for the wine-bottle, ending up with his mouth inches from Aziraphale’s neck, warm moist breath on the skin, mumbling,_ ssssorry, angel; 

_Aziraphale, tipsy, losing his balance and walking straight into him, both colliding softly with a wall of a deserted city, probably somewhere in Italy because the air smelled of red oranges when he disentangled himself from Crowley’s too long arms, careful to avoid the alcohol-hazed, softened yellow eyes;_

_Crowley, drunk off his face in this or that century, Spain this time, dejected and pliant as Aziraphale guided him to the bed, clutching helplessly as he muttered, words spilling together in an incongruent mess,_ it wasn’t me, it wasssn’t me, I ssswear —

All of it in this moment: simultaneously the same and shockingly different now. Different, oh, different. He smelled differently — a wan cloying of blood and gauze, vague sickly scent to his waxy skin and too-long, too-unruly hair. Differently shaped: all bone and sharp edges, no surprising softness hiding in the familiar crooks. Smaller, somehow, more temporary. The edge of his new-old sunglasses dug into Aziraphale’s sternum as Crowley breathed in with a near-wheeze, shaking with the labour of it.

And still, it was _him_ , sick or not, changed or not, _it was him._ And Aziraphale had _abandoned him_.

Closing his eyes, he whispered the name into Crowley’s temple, holding on with a vehemence, and unsure of which of them would collapse if he let go. ‘Crowley.’ 

A new kind of a skewed prayer, something he dared not say aloud in fear of blasphemy through all those lightless weeks, something he repeated even so, over and over, to himself, to the point of insanity. ‘ _Crowley_.’

There was no reply; and for a terrible moment Aziraphale could not be sure if Crowley hadn’t lost his consciousness already, slipping somewhere inaccessible.

But then he did speak, or rather mumble, trembling in a vain effort to lift himself off Aziraphale, and ending up with his mouth muffled against the angel’s collar. 

‘Why — _why_ would you come here.’

Fretfully, only half-listening and instead occupied with inspecting whichever parts of Crowley were easily accessible for visible injuries and fissures, Aziraphale blurted, ‘They did this to you. I can’t believe it — they did this to you. You … Oh, God. God, Crowley.’

Cautiously, with nervous reverence, he lifted Crowley up onto the bench, where the demon slumped against the back rest, breathing through his nose. 

Angled that way, with the dark glasses and a livid expression, he almost resembled himself in the not-so-rare moments when Aziraphale would say something mindless and assuming about him.

Through gritted teeth, he spat out, ‘I _agreed_ to this.’ 

He seemed to have gathered up enough strength to shut off once again, his sunken face becoming unfathomable, body language radiating hostility. His shaded eyes were turned away from Aziraphale, as though he were looking away — but there was a red mark cutting across his cheekbone, seemingly spilling from the eye, painfully reminiscent of the reason he needed the sunglasses now.

Aziraphale’s heart constricted. 

‘That’s what I don’t understand,’ he snapped back, torn between rising anger and some sort of mind-dumbing, frenetic emotion he couldn’t quite name. ‘ _Why_. Why would you even —’

Interrupting him, Crowley snarled, ‘Why do you _think_.’

Aziraphale found himself staring at Crowley in abrupt silence, still half-reaching in case the other one was to fall, unable to say anything.

Oh, what _was_ there to say? Only the obvious, and the obvious was already in the clear, tragically enough: _love_.

Great, terrifying, love, in this tattered dying man or angel, in this foul neglected garden, in millennia of blind stuffy years of wine and dancing around each other, circling the inevitable like two stupid birds, unable to land. Love, smothered, kicked up, barely breathing. Still there. And how could they have slept through so much of it? How could they have almost left it to die? 

How could _he_?

‘This body is dying,’ Crowley announced, wretchedly, his frail voice harsh and bitter. ‘And it so happens that this body is _all_ I have left now.’

Still unable to speak, Aziraphale let his eyes fall closed. The wind picked up, carrying a faint scent of autumn flowers and the decay of first-dead leaves. _How does all this even still exist? The world has fallen asunder around us, how is there still a shabby rosebush twined into the armrest of this bench, and all this haphazard grass? Are you doing it? Is it_ your _Holy Land? Am I allowed to tread here?_  

‘So either you help along and finish the damned job bloody Angelene cared to fuck up,’ Crowley went on, haltingly, and then broke off. Something like a wince, of pain or discomfort, flitted across his features before he collected himself. ‘Or … or just get back up there. Honestly. Do that for me, Aziraphale. This one thing. Spare me this one last shred of dignity, either end this now or go back there and help save whatever’s there to be saved. And don’t come back. _Please_.’ 

For a moment, he didn’t sound harsh, just desperate, _panicked and frightened and desperate_ , and Aziraphale had never hated himself so much in his entire six millennia of existence.

Met with no answer — _because how could anyone possibly answer that, how could anyone ever be able to find the words, Aziraphale the least of all?_ — Crowley winced again and slowly reached down to pat the grass in search of a thin wooden cane from laid by his feet.

Aziraphale watched his bony fingers close upon the handle as he rose staggeringly from the bench, bracing himself against the wobbly support.

‘You shouldn’t have come here,’ Crowley said, viciously, his face turned away from Aziraphale. ‘I wish you hadn’t.’

If he hoped — and he must have — for any sort of resentment to bloom upon these words, he would have been sorely disappointed by the vast, unbearable affection that was rising in Aziraphale instead, uncontrollable and overwhelming. 

He tried to walk away, towards the cottage, his movements nowhere as swift or coordinated as they used to be, and fell towards the ground upon the third step instead, with a strangled cry of pain. Once again, Aziraphale caught him before he hit the grass, gathering up into his arms: light, pliant now, crushable. 

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he whispered. 

‘M’not — _ngk_ ,’ Crowley trailed off, losing the remains of consciousness, his head falling limply to Aziraphale’s chest.

 

_(Anathema)_

 

She had been leaning against the kitchen’s counter and staring vacantly into space, hands cupped around a chipped red mug and languid thoughts of rather empty nature coursing through her head — such a rare moment of blissful dissociative peace, _goddamn_ it — when the angel barrelled into the kitchen with a lifeless Crowley in his arms, managing to sent half of the kitchen drawer’s contents tumbling to the ground on his way.

‘Oh bother,’ Aziraphale said helplessly.

Anathema startled, nearly choking on her gone-cold herbal tea, and leapt towards them. 

‘Oh, God,’ she spluttered, still coughing and trying to support Aziraphale somehow by clutching at his elbow, which only resulted in the angel nearly losing his balance once again. ‘Oh, _Christ on a bike_. What are you doing here? How did you — what happened to — God. I thought he’d be happy to see you, I didn’t mean _that_ happy, I didn’t … What the hell’s happened?’

‘Something quite far removed from happiness, I’m afraid,’ Aziraphale said distractedly, looking around. ‘He wasn’t delighted. Er, Anathema, my dear girl — is there anywhere where I could …?’

‘Lay him down?’ Anathema picked up instantly, wiping her hands on her already grubby overalls. ‘Yeah, upstairs — just let me …’

She deftly manoeuvred her way around Aziraphale and rushed towards the staircase. With considerably less grace and more caution, the angel followed, wary as not to have any part of Crowley collide with walls or sharper edges. 

‘Here,’ Anathema stammered out as she fumbled with the doors to the bedroom, ‘I wanted to change his sheets later but — ’ 

‘No matter, dear,’ Aziraphale said dismissively, passing her in the doorway as he made his way inside. Taken aback, Anathema realised the stuffy air disappeared, replaced mysteriously with a faint scent of fresh laundry. 

Before she could open her mouth to inquire, Aziraphale laid Crowley carefully down on the bed, making sure that he could breathe without obstruction and running a hand through the too-long hair dangling over the demon’s forehead.

There was something mournful in his eyes.

Straightening, he tore his eyes away from Crowley’s sunken face and glanced around, seemingly thrown by the interior’s appearance. Instinctively, Anathema followed his gaze, inexplicably surprised by the appearance of the room she’d barely left in the past couple of weeks. 

It was small and sparsely furnished. The drawn curtains were a light grey and filtered the sunlight into something dim and non-intruding, and the air was thick with herbs and sterilising liquid, as well as slightly damp. The bed was unmade: a farrago of almost pointedly rumpled sheets and pillows, all blue, with something like a vague Crowley-shaped indention in the middle. On top of the night table, and scattered across the sheets, were books, empty bowls and an old solitary radio.

As though involuntarily, Aziraphale reached out and plucked at the nearest one — Thomas Moore, _Utopia_. And then further in the jumble of blankets: _Brave New World, Paradise Lost_. Something like a very small smile seemed to tug at one of his lips’ corners. 

‘This _is_ you, isn’t it’ he said softly, touching Crowley’s reddened cheekbone lightly. ‘This is what you do. Recognise the pattern, find the flaw, fixate until it leaves you crushed. But persevere, persevere until you have no strength. And then leave it all to me to pick up the shreds.’

He paused. Then after a moment of silence, he murmured, ‘Crowley, what have you done?’

Suddenly feeling like an intruder, Anathema closed her eyes, biting at her lower lip.

‘How could he read them?’ Aziraphale asked after a beat, voice a mixture of softness and curiosity. ‘With his eyes — did you …?’

She nodded before he could formulate the entirety of the question. ‘He asked me to read them to him, and I — well, it’s not like I could have _left_ , most of the time, he had a ridiculous fever and … well, he leaked a lot, I had to check up on him all the time or I would find him all blood-drenched and delirious. He _picked_ the books, though. I would go for something lighter, more distracting. Period drama or … I don’t know. Though I guess it must be different if you’ve lived through all this, so perhaps it’d make no difference. No relief, just remembering … so maybe he preferred to … to imagine what future would be like. That’s what I thought, I …’ 

She trailed off, picking up on the concerned, overtly analytic look Aziraphale was giving her. _Oh, what a sight I must be_ , Anathema thought wryly, _sleep-deprived in haggard work clothes: Liberty Leading the People to Apocalypse. Just the right choice for being placed right between Heaven and Hell’s newest carnival of idiocy and made into an occult Florence Nightingale._  

‘Of course,’ Aziraphale meanwhile said, gravely. ‘I … I honestly have no words. Thank you. I cannot express you how much it —’

Anathema shook her head violently, as if to beg, _please, please stop before I break down, I’m still holding it together, spare me this pretence of cold blood_ , and then gestured sharply at Crowley. ‘What happens now? Now … now you’re here, I mean?’ 

Aziraphale fell silent for a moment. ‘He shouldn’t have survived this,’ he said finally, voice quiet.

‘I know.’ Meeting Aziraphale’s questioning gaze in a sideways glance, she bit her lower lip and reluctantly explained, ‘I’ve read up on it. And different things, I — we — okay, _I_ might have let myself into your old bookshop, once or twice. Done some research. Browsed. I just — sorry, but I just figured if you’re back up there for good — like he insisted you were, honestly, I can’t stress this enough how convinced of it he was — then … well, there would be no harm in nosing around. Sorry.’ 

‘Oh,’ Aziraphale said, seemingly taken aback. Then he said, as though surprised at himself, ‘No, no. No need to apologise. That is … really quite clever.’

‘Scriptural precedent,’ Anathema muttered, staring at her own hands.

Aziraphale blinked, then frowned. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Nothing,’ she said quickly. Then she asked, ‘How _did_ he survive, then?’

The silence that followed was so reverent that Anathema thought something was being said in it, too quietly for her to catch, too intricate for her to comprehend.

Then, quietly, Aziraphale said, ‘A miracle.’

There was another silence.

‘He won’t last much longer, you know,’ she blurted out, unable to hold back any longer, voice hitching. She hugged her arms to herself, looking persistently at Crowley and cautiously avoiding intersecting her gaze with the angel: ‘I’m sorry, but that’s just how it is. That’s why … that’s why I’m glad you came in the end. Be it by mistake or —’

Conscientiously, in a tone that was more than a little nitpicking, Aziraphale interjected, ‘Oh, it’s a long story but I certainly never intended to _comply_ to his ridicu —’

‘— it doesn’t matter. I’m just … glad he’d get to see you before it ends. Because there’s not much left in him, and I don’t really think he even wants to survive this.’

At that, Aziraphale inhaled sharply. ‘No,’ he said, curtly. ‘Don’t let it concern you. I am … not going to allow it to happen.’

Anathema raised her eyes at him for the first time in a long while.

But she wasn’t disbelieving, not exactly. She desperately wanted not to be disbelieving. She _wanted_ to believe him. ‘What are you going to do?’ she asked at last, almost hopefully. 

Aziraphale frowned again, letting his eyes rest upon Crowley, sparse and angular on the bright sheets, twitching lightly with each shaky breath he drew.

‘Now, let’s not forget,’ he muttered, ‘he’s not the only one capable of miracles, is he?’

‘But isn’t that —’ Anathema bit her lip. ‘I mean, okay, that other angel’s kind of a jerk, yeah? The Messenger. Or whatever. But I did read up on this as well. _Can_ you even help him?’

The question might have been somewhat obscure, somewhat flimsy, but she had no doubts Aziraphale understood it well.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘it may be true that Crowley has always had an uncanny knack for acting directly in opposition to what he was supposed to be and managing to perform only what wasn’t his to be performed but, _dear me._ ’

He smiled, and _God_ , Anathema thought, _was that a wicked smile._ ‘So have I.’

 

…

 

Inhaling rapidly, Crowley stirred on the bed, raising up and kicking off the bedsheets.

Snapped out of his weary state of half-dozing, Aziraphale straightened up sharply, blinking. He’d been sitting on the floor, propped up against the side of the bed: legs outstretched and jacket discarded, the top buttons of his pristine white shirt undone — quite _unthinkably_ , really — trying to fight off the persistent, overwhelming inertia and remain vigilant in the wake of Crowley possibly waking up.

‘Hh … ahh …?’ came an incongruous, hoarse mumble from above, and Aziraphale lifted himself off the floor in a somewhat graceless but efficient motion, drawing closer to the bed.

Crowley was stretched out across it, propped up on his elbows and visibly confused. His hair was in a disarray, his chest was heaving and there was a focused, uncomprehending look in his — 

‘Your eyes,’ Aziraphale said in wonder, reaching out to touch the side of Crowley’s face with his fingertips — a mirror for the dream-not-dream. Only this time, there _was_ really a pair of yellow eyes looking in utter bewilderment into Aziraphale’s face: old, beloved and strange, replacing the gaunt hollows of his injuries. 

‘They’re back. It worked. Oh God. Crowley, I really … oh, that’s really _good_.’ He smiled, quite in spite of reason, immensely relieved and heedless of the still un-processed feelings and consequences.

Cold reality chose to manifest itself rather quickly: Crowley tensed uncomfortably upon touch. 

Stiffly, with his jaw set, he said, ‘You shouldn’t … have done this. Any of this. I _mean_ it.’ 

He sounded strained and very odd, a kind of voice Aziraphale was fairly sure he’d never heard from him. Deflating a little, he sat down on the edge of the bed, sighing. ‘Crowley, I —’ he trailed off.

His hand lingered where he’d placed it on Crowley’s jaw. Perhaps it _was_ just the room’s treacherous half-light, inviting too much space for imagination, but something in the effort with which he kept himself upright, his utter lack of movement and stubbornly downcast eyes told Aziraphale that Crowley was straining not _lean_ into the touch. 

‘I know you do,’ Aziraphale said, curtly, abruptly finding it impossible to voice anything else.

His fingertips brushing past the soft hair on Crowley’s temple were marked by a _twitch_ , barely even discernible, of eyelids, a half-stifled shaky breath. Crowley swallowed.

‘But you left me no choice,’ Aziraphale managed, despising himself for sounding accusatory, but unable to prevent it, frustration whelming up in him in a flash. ‘You didn’t exactly make it easy for me.’

Crowley tensed even more, if possible. He flinched, deftly, jerking away from the angel’s hand, tension radiating tendon to muscle, hand to shoulder. His knuckles turned white on the bedsheet where he kept his hands unmoving. ‘Easy for you?’ he said, choked with something like outrage, or maybe something else. ‘ _I didn’t make it easy for you_?’ 

 _And you don’t know the half of it_ , Aziraphale thought. _The half of what was going through my head, what I wanted to_ … _what would_ you _say if I told you I almost fell right after you. Without second thought, just like you, just like you believe I never would._

‘No,’ he said instead, stiffly. ‘You didn’t. I cannot fathom, why on earth didn’t you tell me —’

The reply was swift and sharp. ‘I _tried_ to tell you.’

It was like a whiplash, a cold sting of unbearable, damning awareness, and Aziraphale deflected further into his half-righteous anger, trying to shield himself with it, lessen the blow. He raised his eyebrows, and said, coldly, ‘Oh? You tried? Oh, that’s rich, Crowley: you _tried_ to tell me. Must have been enormously taxing, that attempt. You tried — I’m sorry, was that before or after you snapped at me for trying eke out some reaction, any reaction, from you, regarding my departure —’

Crowley’s eyes snapped up, bright and startling, and full of something so intense that Aziraphale could not do but lean away, cut short. 

‘You —’ Crowley said, and then broke off. Every muscle of his face was tense. ‘You _absolute_ —’

Aziraphale flinched. The smokescreen faded, dissolved, leaving behind only guilt, and there was too much of it to shield anything anymore.

‘Don’t worry,’ he said, quietly, his throat constricting with something cold and slimy, suffocating. ‘I know. And I’m loathe to let you believe for a second that you hate me in any way more than I hate myself.’

A sharp exhalation. Crowley’s eyelids twitched, as though stifling a blink. All the venom of his expression melted. 

‘No, I _don’t_ — I ... ’ he trailed off, barely even vocal.

Somewhere deep in the subconscious, Aziraphale understood what he was doing, learning to recognise the fatal pattern at last: holding back as much as he could, withdrawing deep inwards, into his age-old shell of mute resistance, past a barrier Aziraphale had always found himself frustratingly incapable of even approaching. Stubborn, defiant hiding of whatever Crowley categorised as necessary to preserve enough dignity not to collapse. Right now, it seemed simple enough:  _no touch_. _No explanation. No mercy._

And there and then, Aziraphale promised himself: if there was anything meant to follow at all, if they managed to do anything, if, by some miracle, they were to _live_ , and he would be allowed his personal repentance _—_ he would take it upon himself to destroy, reverently, each of those doubts and inhibitions, one by one. So that there would be no more times when the words _‘I tried’_ would sting so much.

‘I would be of no use without you,’ he said instead, gravely, laying his hand down on the mattress, within Crowley’s reach, yet distinctly not pushing for touch. 

Crowley stared down, and then swallowed. In mere seconds, something in his entire posture changed, becoming desperate rather than angry.

‘But you would _be_ ,’ he insisted in a whisper, eyes falling shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haaa, God, they're such idiots :')
> 
> Let me know what you think (if you'd like, that is.) ❤


	6. in this last of meeting places

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Unable to stop his voice from cracking, Aziraphale managed, weakly, ‘Is it really malleable enough for the two of us to affect it so significantly? To … to interfere, one last time, to such extent?’_
> 
> _‘I hope so,’ Crowley said abruptly, hands bunching into fists at his sides as he stared down. The brief moment of awe passed; he was no longer strange and unnerving. He was what he had always been; and somehow that made Aziraphale even dizzier. ‘I … do, I hope so, even now.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! ❤
> 
> And ... we've arrived here. I can't even express how grateful and happy I am about the warm and lovely response I've received from you on this story. You're all absolutely ... brilliant and amazing, and the only reason this entire endeavour was possible at all.
> 
> This is the last chapter of this particular take – last in the sense that we're reaching the resolution of Crowley and Aziraphale's story. I do suspect know that I will be writing an epilogue at some point in near future, if only to give a proper farewell to Anathema (there has been, originally, quite a substantial scene between her and Crowley in this chapter, but - as you will see, hopefully – it just wouldn't work here, given the pace and significance of the interaction between Crowley and Aziraphale) and a little hint as to _what follows_ with the two of them.
> 
> But essentially, yes, this is the ending. I just hope it delivers: it's somewhat different from the previous ones, set to a different rhythm (and dare I say, lighter?) ... God, I'm so nervous about this chapter. Ten times more nervous than the other ones.
> 
> (It's also quite thoroughly blue, in my mind, which is rare. With a brain as utterly synaesthesia-and-colour-riddled as mine, all of the chapters and stories and such take on the oddest colours, but surprisingly few of them are my favourite one. So that might be good.)
> 
> Anyway, I just ... hope you enjoy! ❤
> 
> (Oh, I almost forgot. Again. Here's the [music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ruf5I4eQHY8).)
> 
> [As of 9th of May, slight corrections introduced. Hope it's a bit more readable!]

_ six _

_ **in this last of meeting places** _

* * *

 

 

_ (Aziraphale) _

 

The ever-changing blur of burnished gold above churned, coiled within itself, until a rupture in its centre spilled out first light, then shape; hazy but growing clearer with each moment, defining into frayed feathers and limbs, dimming into the smooth shade of skin. She descended onto the projection of the ground, fixing her audience with piercing eyes; with seemingly unshakeable stoicism.

‘ _You_ ,’ Aziraphale said, with feeling, lurching forward. ‘ _Fuck_ you.’

The Messenger regarded him, her unnervingly harmonious face unscathed by any expression, her pupil-lacking radiant eyes expressionless. She didn’t move.

‘I now _do_ see a common root of the affection he seems to harbour for you,’ she said at length, and were she not God’s own messenger, there would be no mistaking her voice for anything else than wry. Aziraphale did not mistake it anyway.  ‘You seem to share an ill-advised inclination for violence of expression.’

‘He,’ Aziraphale said menacingly, disregarding the jibe entirely, ‘is none of your _business_.’

‘To the contrary, Aziraphale,’ the other angel said, remaining stolidly unperturbed. ‘He is _all_ the business we have left now, at least concerning Earth. How many p _rophets_ do you think we have to spare in this Eve of Doomsday?’

‘He is not your … _prophet_ ,’ Aziraphale spat out, much in the way one would phrase the sentence _he is not your toy_. 

‘But he _is_ ,’ the Messenger said, calmly. ‘Haven’t you paid attention?’

Aziraphale inhaled sharply, closing his eyes. ‘Listen, just because you’ve _tricked_ him into thinking that —

‘We have not _tricked_ the Prophet into anything,’ the Messenger said, a slight edge of annoyance colouring her tone at last as she gave Aziraphale a hard stare. ‘He gave his consent freely.’

Aziraphale stared harder. ‘Bollocks. It’s not consent if —’

The Messenger’s voice grew louder, ‘First, do consider your vernacular, will you. Second, one does _not_ lecture the Messenger of Heaven on the principles of consent, Aziraphale. We _did_ invent the concept, and we advise you to refrain from—’

‘Don’t you see the paradox?’ Aziraphale snapped, interrupted her. He paced up and down, wringing his hands in the air and then running them through his hair erratically. ‘It didn’t work! Whatever you tried to make him, bait or catalyst — the smiting wasn’t even _successful_. He resisted it, he didn’t die. Don’t you see the flaw in the pattern? Are you really that blinded?’

The Messenger bristled, her manifestation becoming, in a brief moment, more predatory and feline than humanlike. ‘He would have died,’ she said, voice growing tinny and jarring, unnatural, ‘… _eventually_ , if it was not for your … _unscripted intervention_.’

Aziraphale threw up his hands in frustration. ‘That’s not how smiting works! For it to hold any meaning, for your … goddamned _scriptural precedent_ , he would have to — he was supposed to — cease existing on the spot, with no trace or cognition. As you’re well aware of!’

‘We _have_ revised the texts,’ the Messenger began, her tone balancing between irate and reproachful.

‘— law does _not_ work backwards —’ Aziraphale interjected, darkly.

The Messenger’s voice and speech pattern lapsed from all foreign mysticism and into sheer irritation, somewhat shriller than it was to begin with.

‘— and have you considered the possibility that he had conditioned himself into some sort of immunity, I mean, _goodness gracious_ , Aziraphale, he keeps Holy Water in his quarters, what kind of a demon —’

‘No, that just means he was too good to be smitten! Didn’t fulfil your precious criteria!’ Aziraphale cut in again. ‘Wich means — which means it was a _crime_. An atrocity! The whole endeavour!’

The Messenger very nearly groaned. ‘ _Please_ , Aziraphale, in which court do you think such a case would stand? Debate: _the smiting of a demon — common practice for millennia or an unprecedented murder?_ Who do you think would plead for him?’

Aziraphale’s eyes narrowed. ‘ _I_ would.’

The Messenger winced. ‘You are _delusional_ —’

‘I would, and I will, I will plead the case of both him and this entire _world_ , and I will do it right now when I get my trial as I am formally entitled to!’

‘Revision in the text,’ the Messenger gritted out, icily, ‘not delusional: _insane_. There are no court cases, Aziraphale, there is no High Judge. Which part of _we have been abandoned_ do you not understand? Can you grasp that there is no formal institution to plead —’

‘One doesn’t lecture a Principality on the intricacies of the judiciary system!’ Aziraphale said waspishly. ‘Yes, I do understand. I don’t need a court case. I need to be _heard_. I need a place to be heard.’

She watched him in silence for a moment, stony face and scorching eyes, hands clasped rigidly in front of her. No rational observer would dare assume there was anything in her disposition that signalled relenting. 

Perhaps Aziraphale had genuinely crossed the border of sanity, because he sensed the triumph before it was granted.

‘Good luck,’ said the Messenger, voice clipped.

And the vision changed.

 

…

 

Scarcely even daylight yet, the colours shrouding the garden tilted from greys to shy lilacs, stymied and unclear, almost monochromatic. It was quiet, a sleep-hazed empty silence, and it was _familiar_. White-flowered, half-dried rosebushes, frail and tangled as though frozen in a moment of the past; convoluted grassy paths leading through darkened hedges — and this swirling haze above, heavier and stranger than the sky. The air smelled of the roses here, thick and almost strangling, as eerie as all the rest.

‘Where _are_ we?’ said Aziraphale, finding his own voice oddly stymied.

Crowley twitched, as though broken out of a reverie. Lanky, draped with his black cloak-like coat, pallid in the eerie light, with distant eyes andan unfathomable expression, he seemed no more than half-probable, frighteningly at home midst the dreamscape, elusive like another echo in a long line of them. 

But then he spoke out and his familiarly structured, vaguely sarcastic voice grounded Aziraphale in the notion that both of them were equally present here, regardless of what _here_ meant. 

He said, ‘Is it going to sound self-conscious if I say I think we’re inside my head?’

Aziraphale blinked. Whatever he had been expecting, it was hardly _this_.

‘The inside of your head is a half-wilted rose garden?’ he muttered uncertainly, casting a distracted glance around. There were dried leaves at his feet, and a sleeping black cat curled on top of a near-carious wooden bench. It was also _quiet,_ disturbingly so. He would not have suspected that —

‘ _No_ , usually the inside of my head is something along the lines of a _continuously burning car_ which I have to keep together by the sheer force of my dwindling willpower, so in a _sssense_ this is kind of a nice deviation —’

Aziraphale closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. _Ah, there it is_. ‘Crowley, _to the point_.’

‘Oh, _fond_ of me, he is,’ Crowley muttered under his breath. Before Aziraphale managed to catch and analyse the sentence well enough to question its improbable familiarity, he barrelled on, ‘Right. Yeah, I think we’re in my head, ‘cause it’s … it feels like the dreams I’ve been having, okay? I mean, it’s different. Looks different. But I still recognise it.’

Aziraphale looked around once again, frowning. Again this vague unshaped feeling, an echo or a … memory? No, but that made no _sense_.

‘Curious thing …’ he said nevertheless, then trailed off. ‘But I do, too.’

Crowley shrugged one shoulder, a movement almost studiously nonchalant. He still wouldn’t meet Aziraphale’s eyes. ‘Dreams are distortions of reality,’ he muttered. ‘You _would_ recognise it: this, I think, is some variation on the theme of my cottage’s back garden. A little bit more morbid, but that’s just the way it typically goes.’

He focused back on Aziraphale, his eyes narrowing. ‘I suppose you’ve conjured this one, though, after your chat with the Messenger.’ 

Then, as though he could not help himself, he ventured, ‘What exactly _is_ your secret plan, eh?’

Without missing a beat or letting himself consider the absurdity of the statement, Aziraphale replied, ‘Improvisation.’

And before Crowley could do anything more than raise his eyebrows (though he did raise them in a manner Aziraphale found frustratingly telling), he pressed on, bluntly, ‘Say, Crowley, if this is a _reflection_ of the world based off _your_ perception of it, where in the world would you go to get a hold of _God_?’

Crowley finally fixed him with an odd stare, set somewhere between curiosity and amusement, dampened with apprehension. ‘You mean,’ he murmured, voice low, ‘where _did_ I go.’

Then, with masterfully feigned nonchalance, after Aziraphale raised _his_ eyebrows. ‘St James’.’

 

…

 

It could have been something in the way of fascinating: the misshapen, reconstructed ghost of their own city, blue and grey in — if his theory was indeed a _correct_ one — the repainting of Crowley’s mind. But Aziraphale paid their eerie surroundings remarkably little attention; remarkably less than it deserved while offering relatively easy access to what was, in essence, a manifestation of the subconscious of the very person he most _needed_ to know and understand.

But a direr urgency was growing inside him, imprecise yet unmistakable. Aziraphale found himself yearning to break the newfound and _terrible_ distance; physical, metaphorical, all of the varieties. Stretching and gathering between him and Crowley was presently a land of silence so well-fortified, so trussed up in honed evasions and jibes, that it almost seemed natural.

It would have felt natural. It would have passed without a blink, had Aziraphale not been fighting the gnawing feeling of realisation for what felt like sheer tedious _months_ now, first in company, then in solitude, then in reluctant and even harsher company again. He had the question, he had his own blasted _answer_ , but he still needed … he needed something else. Proof, maybe; maybe mercy. _Look at me_ , he wanted to demand, _have you meant what I think you have meant? Is there yet something to salvage here?_

_Speak to me._

‘May I ask you something?’ he heard his own voice, almost unrecognisable with its pretence of lightness. ‘What … what are you wearing?’

Laughable, cheap trick, really; and in a place devoid of weather per se, just as mundane as an inquiry about _that_ would be on Earth. But Crowley’s all-black wispy attire did evoke _some_ question mark at the back of Aziraphale’s mind, so he felt at least partly justified.

Crowley remained silent for a moment, watching the ground beneath his feet as he walked. He kicked a stone, lightly, and then pushed his hands into the pocket of his voluminous coat.

‘Funnily enough, you’ve already _asked_ me that,’ he said finally, sounding unexpectedly sullen. ‘In my dream. While wearing some ridiculous white bloody … uniform, too, you’d had the cheek to ask _me_ that. Always a hypocrite at heart, you were, Aziraphale.’

The _jibe_ was inviting, taunting enough to be taken for normal; innocuous enough for Aziraphale to understand that he was being given both a peace offering and a gate out simultaneously. But he didn’t take the bait, not _remotely_ , because something else, unrealised yet suspected, suddenly struck him with full force.

He drew to a rapid halt. Crowley glanced behind and stopped as well, swaying in his unfamiliar hermit-coat.

‘What’s the matter?’ he said, frowning.

_(‘It just wouldn’t do to drag the Flash Bastard up the ladder to the Big Up Above now, would it? I needed a whole new persona.’)_

Slowly, as though in surprise, Aziraphale said, ‘Yes, I … I did.’

__(‘_ A new persona, he says. Oh well, I suppose that makes sense. _’)__

Then, seeing the sheer confusion in Crowley’s eyes, ‘I _did_ ask you that.’

__(‘_ Spot-on, angel.’)_

There was a silence.

‘It was a dream,’ Crowley then insisted, voice suddenly sharp, posture suddenly strained. ‘A _dream_ , angel. In my head. It didn’t happen.’

‘Well, then … then perhaps it was a mutual one,’ Aziraphale countered, slowly. ‘Because I … remember it clearly now. You, in that garden, with all the … all the tangerine trees. Why the tangerine trees? And, _ah_ , you _told_ me you were a Prophet. I thought it was all me, some subconscious warning I tried to give myself, that dream, it … ultimately, it was what set me off and sent me down to search for you.’

Crowley shot him a wary look of startling yellow eyes, looking even tenser. ‘Was it now,’ he said, his voice carefully neutral.

Then he added, waspishly, ‘And I suppose you remember visiting my cottage to tell me off for sleeping too much, too, eh?’

Aziraphale’s instantaneous reply, which surprised even _himself_ , made Crowley positively freeze.

‘Yes,’ the angel said, firmly. And it _was_ as clear as day now, vivid in the phosphenes of memory: a blue room, an oozing sort of music, then … _then_ —

‘Yes, I’m afraid we _must_ have been sharing dreams, because, ah,’ he cleared his throat, vaguely embarrassed, ‘well, unless I’m very much mistaken and either we are talking about two very different instances, _or_ we’ve both independently conjured a dream wherein I attempt to wake you up by … by, ah, employing the virtues of Tchaikovsky — ’

Out of the blue, Crowley twitched and glanced up, looking inexplicably appalled. He blurted out, ‘That wasn’t _Tchaikovsky_.’

It was Aziraphale’s turn to hold his breath.

Then he said, his voice muffled with a valiant attempt to suppress the rapid and unexpected amusement, ‘Dear boy, I think it would have been whatever you wished to hear. And I think you’re _quite_ missing the point.’

Crowley didn’t move. ‘You tried to slowdance me to bloody Tchai —’

Suddenly acutely annoyed, Aziraphale interrupted, ‘Yes, well, I had a _dream_ , Crowley. A dream.’

‘ _No_ ,’ Crowley said, stubbornly, drifting unexpecedly closer with his eyes narrowed. He poked Aziraphale in the chest with one bony finger. ‘ _I_ had a dream. You … you just hijacked it. And what _you_ ’ve been trying to say before I interrupted is that we had some … some two-way _vision_ which one of us accidentally kickstarted by disturbing the order of a pre-existing psychic link. By dying. That someone was _me_.’

There was a moment of vaguely stunned silence.

‘I _am_ becoming predictable,’ Aziraphale said, fatuously.

‘I’ve already said: you’ve always been predictable. And you know I’ve said that, because you were _right there_ in my fever dream, even though that’s literally impossible … And fuck’s sake, angel, it’s not even _that_ ,’ Crowley’s voice descended into an urgent whisper, entirely frantic. ‘Listen. Listen, can you hear something? Because _I can hear you think_.’

_No, you can’t_ , came Aziraphale’s instantaneous thought, and almost instantly it was met with a challenging, sizzling, _OH, CAN’T I?_

Unthinkingly, involuntarily, Aziraphale flinched.

‘Not all of it,’ Crowley amended quickly, visibly sheepish now, first making a vague movement as though he wanted to _reach_ for Aziraphale and then stifling it, and moving back away instead in a stilted arrangement of steps. 

‘S’like … echoes,’ he said vaguely. ‘Splinters. It wouldn’t make much sense if we weren’t … both here. If we weren’t talking. I can only hear you when we’re talking.’

Faintly, quite in spite of himself, Aziraphale said, ‘Then maybe we should _stop_.’

Yearning or not, he would’t have his own mind betray whatever sentiments he could have harboured without a proper _filter_. 

‘Yeah, maybe we should,’ Crowley said, meekly.

Silence recommenced between them as they walked on, encased — as Aziraphale suspected — in the cottony mutual recollection of all that happened in the dreams-visions, all that _could_ and _should_ or _shouldn’t_ be voiced out loud now. 

Repeated _out loud_ , Aziraphale corrected himself fatefully, running a distracted hand through his already wild hair. There was hardly any point trying to deny that as far as being vocal about hitherto unrevealed sentiments went, they hardly ever crossed more threshold than exactly there in Crowley’s feverish Italian Eden, each apparently believing the other one to be no more than an echo of the real thing.

_And now comes the time for the cryptic silence_ , he thought frantically, trying to keep up with Crowley’s long nervous strides _, and some twenty-odd years of vague lingering embarrassment before he’ll dare look me in the eyes without the goddamned glasses again. And me, as though I am ANY better. Goodness, there’s going to be a lot of espresso going to waste from across my Three Feet of Decency distance._

He almost resigned himself to his own usually-praised fate of stagnancy when Crowley turned lightly on his heel and to his greatest surprise Aziraphale saw that he was _smiling_. 

Admittedly, it was a rather manic sort of a smile, and to a casual observer, more than a little _unnerving_ , but Aziraphale felt that a lot of blame could be put on the — _fairly understandable_ — aftershocks of being recently resurrected.

_And how do you do it_ , he thought at the same time, momentarily overwhelmed, _that all of the world smiles with you?_

‘Angel,’ Crowley meanwhile said, his catlike eyes flashing dangerously in the twitchy twilight as he walked backwards (while still managing to outpace the angel, the devil) ‘but that’s _brilliant_. That means I didn’t dream up the Committee, either. That means they _know_ they’ve fucked up. That means Someone knows it too, and is _listening_. And you know what? We’ve got double the steam-power now that we know we have this … link, or whatever. Psychic connection. We just need to channel it to _Him_.’

‘You think?’ Aziraphale said, even though he knew Crowley _thought_ , because the vague scattered imprint of his recognisable-now ( _— colour, so much colour there, and noises, and so many bright and terrible things, all at once —_ ) thoughts in Aziraphale’s mind confirmed it. ‘I mean, no offence, Crowley, but as much as I … uh, _admire_ your optimism —’

‘None taken,’ Crowley interrupted him, ‘I _know_ you think I’m insane. But I still think —’

He broke off abruptly, halting and fixing his eyes upon something ahead of them. Disoriented, Aziraphale tried to follow his gaze. 

Crowley grasped his left arm, with either deceptive strength or simply great urgency, leaning closer to whisper, ‘Here. _Here_ ’s where I managed to get a hold of that angel.’

‘Alright,’ Aziraphale said cautiously, somewhat dizzied with the sudden bloom of Crowley’s cognitive processes fluttering a the peripheries of _his_ mind; and regarding the fairly inconspicuous bench with something that bordered with scepticism. ‘What did you _do_ , then?’

Not releasing the angel’s forearm from his steely grip, Crowley tugged forward until they circled the bench in a sort of anxious ritual. 

‘I don’t know,’ he was saying in a hushed voice, ‘bear in mind, I was high as a kite on Anathema’s jolly herbs, and I had quite the fever. To be perfectly frank, I don’t even know if _she_ remembers anything out of the whole thing. Still, it must have worked, because I mean, _we_ have communicated efficiently enough afterwards to  —’

‘— Crowley, are you capable of maintaining _any_  modicum of an attention span at all?’ Aziraphale interrupted him, aiming for annoyance, but to his dismay, winding up with words softer and more affectionate than they ought to. Then again, _ah_ , was he to blame? He wasn’t the one that was presently _clinging_ , uncharacteristically tactile and and intrusive like a cat, to the other one’s forearm.

‘ _Please_ get to the point,’ Aziraphale finished clumsily, in a heroic attempt to reconcile embarrassment and defensiveness.

‘I meant,’ Crowley said, apparently oblivious to his struggle, ‘that all I did was try and convince her that I had a _right_ to be heard. She didn’t even fight back, she’s … not certain. None of them are. They’re just fucking clueless, waiting for ... for a sign, and I happened to be there to give her one. Just like now. And just like back then, with Adam, in that hellish little town. And maybe … ah, _Hell_ , I don’t really _know_ what I’m saying, Aziraphale. We’re making circles, yeah? But maybe that’s all there is to it, a circle. We’re coming full circle, _again_ , to that point years ago, to the Garden, to … to some points in the future, probably, if there’s a future. Do you get what I mean?’

Cautiously, taking into account the after-echo of Crowley's thoughts supplying what his frantic words had left out, Aziraphale allowed, ‘I … I think I do, to an extent at least. You’re saying that in a way, we have reversed to the starting point, so to say, about to ... begin a new chain of consequences, dependent on what we will choose to do. Is that right?’

Crowley squeezed his arm. ‘Yeah.’

Aziraphale shook his head lightly, staring at the lonesome bench. ‘But this is different, isn’t it? We are here, and nobody _else_ is; as you have said, there is nocertainty, no Plan to follow or disobey. What _can_ we alone possibly accomplish here?’

Crowley’s grip tightened briefly once again, and then, as unexpectedly as it came, he released Aziraphale’s forearm and jerked away, rubbing his bony hands together. In a low voice, he said, ‘Maybe _admit_ something.’

Trying not to acknowledge the irrational feeling of defeat at the loss of contact, Aziraphale said, warily, ‘Admit what?’

‘That it’s not just meddling that we need to give up, but something _more_.’

Aziraphale frowned: the thought-echo dissipated into nothing but a faint buzz as Crowley withdrew. ‘My dear, you’ll need to be _clearer_ — ’

Crowley’s eyes were glowing eerily in the dim light. He was staring vacantly into space, some inaccessible point, invisible to Aziraphale. 

‘Aziraphale,’ he said, quite softly,‘have you ever thought about how you make a very bad angel?’ 

A blink. Then, ‘What on _Earth_ does that have to do with anything?’

‘ _Everything_. Face it, you make a ... _dubious_ Principality, to put it mildly. And _I_ make a lousy devil. Always have, both of us. Come on: you don’t even _want_ to be what you are, unless it’s on your specific terms. When you can … I don’t know, leave Heaven on your own accord, revive your sworn enemy from the grave, shout at your superiors and get sloshed with Riesling while watching science-fiction films that you _don’t even like_. Steal my angel cake. Own a cosy den of heresy in London’s slouchiest corner.’

In a pained voice, Aziraphale said, ‘I _really_ wish you wouldn’t call my bookshop that.’

‘Shut _up_ , Aziraphale. Think about it,’ Crowley urged, relentlessly. ‘What if it’s the _sides_ we have to give up? The whole blasted order?’

Aziraphale hesitated.

He could hardly imagine a more significant disturbance in his own universal order which _should_  feel nothing short of unbearable. Or, at least, undesirable. Should, or rather: would have done, not long ago. 

He swallowed. ‘I _suppose_ there’s something in it. But it still doesn’t make sense, Crowley: why would the causality of events in the entire world depend on _us_ alone?’

‘Because. Because there’s _no one else_ who would do anything on their own. They’re all waiting for a plan, a new Big Plan, fucking _Infallible_ this time, for instructions. We’re not. I don’t need instructions. I know what I want.’

To say that Crowley had been _intimidating_ at any point of their shared history would be much of an overstatement, and simultaneously one of the prime examples of theirskilful flight from the prescribed labels. But right now, with something so uniquely determined and urgent in his eyes, something so conscious and deliberate carved in his expression; clad in the black robe and placed among the eerie landscape of his own mystifying mind, he made the most haunting and beautiful sight Aziraphale had ever seen — haunting, beautiful, and _terrifying_.

Unable to stop his voice from cracking, Aziraphale managed, weakly, ‘Is it really malleable enough for the two of us to affect it so significantly? To … to _interfere_ , one last time, to such extent?’

‘I hope so,’ Crowley said abruptly, hands bunching into fists at his sides as he stared down. The brief moment of awe passed; he was no longer strange and unnerving. He was what he had always been; and somehow that made Aziraphale even dizzier.  ‘I … do, I _hope so_ , even now. I … That was my whole point, I don’t care for the _sssides_ , I just wanted it to go on, all the world, just as it is. I … look, Aziraphale, I’m _sorry_ for messing it up so much. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. Really. I just wanted to … I _wanted_ to — ’

He trailed off, either unable or unwilling to actually formulate the thought, and quietened. As if to ask for something. As if to say: _your move_. 

With a brief fierce prayer, directed at Someone who quite probably wasn’t even listening, _let it be what it look likes, let him say what I think he’s saying, let me salvage all this damage we’ve almost done to us_ , Aziraphale shook his head.

‘No: _I_ am sorry that I did not pay attention,’ he said carefully. Crowley almost blinked: a tiny sharp movement.

‘All the times when you _have_ tried to tell me something and I, being foolish, refused to listen. Forced myself not to _hear_. I did think I was justified, that I was protecting — I thought it was the wiser thing to do, safer. To pretend nothing changed. To be silent through it.’ 

He _hoped_ to be conveying what he needed to ( _I’ve been blind, blind but not numb, never)_ and yet was simultaneously aware of the futility of such hope: all the trouble sprouted and grew out of the repressed and the evocative, twined together into a smokescreen, remaining between them as though indefinitely. In silent frustration, he wished to force himself into bluntness, and failing words so miserably, wished for a different _solution_ , some simpler form of honesty, starker and clearer to give.

‘To be fair, most of what I said was utterly incoherent,’ Crowley said in the meantime: meek, almost smiling. His eyes were downcast again, but his expression had slackened, becoming softer and unguarded. ‘So I’d say we’re more or less even.’

In a sizzle, in a split of second, Aziraphale saw the way.

‘But one can’t endure being silent through _such_ change,’ he said abruptly, willing his voice to be even, and failing even at that. ‘It’s _nonsensical_. Some circles need to be broken. If we’re ending that old world, if we’re acknowledging things, then yes, let us be thorough with it — goddamn it, Crowley, let’s acknowledge the _change itself_ , the real change, we —’

Crowley finally looked up to hold his gaze: bright arresting eyes in a thin face, wary and alert and so endearingly young, even after the millennia, so uniquely hopeful.

‘We what?’ he said, so quietly it may have been a whisper.

‘Yes,’ Aziraphale said, nonsensically. Then he held out his hand.

_(‘Nice knowing you.’)_

_Mirrors, circles; yes, we’re repeating what we’ve always been, giving it a name_ , he thought dazedly as Crowley tensed, stilled, then slowly took his hand — hesitant, with this scarce well-known flash of some unspeakable hurt momentarily vibrant across his already shutting-off expression. _Because it just wouldn’t do, would it, to let us unravel any further; you can only repeat_ _a mistake so many times before it turns into torture, and torture could only be justifiable if you were alone in it._

_Bookends_ , said Aziraphale to himself, nearly breathless with the anticipation of his wilful stab against stagnancy, once and for all. _You and me in the chaos._

_(‘Here’s to the next time. And Aziraphale — ’)_

One first and final motion to end everything and begin again: to pull the surprised, pliant Crowley forward, bring a hand to the back of his neck, then pull once again, firmly down, lips to lips.

Perhaps something in the air really _did_ disintegrate into almost unthinkable relief of world-old tension, elevating the gesture and moment into some new, higher-dimensional experience, some invention of new order and causality of things: _together, not against; visible, not hushed_. 

Or perhaps Aziraphale had been lying to himself for far too long, about how long overdue was the knowing of the (soft) touch of Crowley’s lips, and of his face cradled in his hands; how significant the ignorace of his hitching breath’s sound and the tremble of his shoulders; a lack in the catalogue of world’s essential wonders.

He leaned away, hands travelling down through impatient air until he had Crowley firmly by both his wrists, steadying and holding back both. 

‘Y-you … you don’t just _do_ it, you,’ Crowley was blurting, half-pleading, half-accusing, eyes also _half_ -open; looking at Aziraphale as though _he_ were ever the miracle, and not the other way round. 

He was choked, almost incoherent, his cold hands clutching at Aziraphale’s wrists in turn. ‘If you don’t mean — this _means_   _sssomething_ , and I couldn’t stand it if — I couldn’t _ssstand_ it —’

‘Oh,’ Aziraphale said. ‘No, neither could I.’

Something in Crowley’s face changed then, significantly: the left corner of his mouth winning the precarious game for once, brightening all features sharply with a smile that was, _quite objectively_ , Aziraphale dared to think, _quite heavenly_. He didn’t say anything, didn’t move.

Then he inhaled.

‘Well, _bless_ me, then,’ he said quietly, his voice lighter than Aziraphale remembered it being since their first Garden. 

Crowley straightened up and looked upwards, into the ceiling of odd floating matter above them, into the source of all dreams, and perhaps the silent eyes of the only possible listener. 

‘Do you hear me, you up there?’ he said. ‘Bless me. _I_ w _ant more life._ ’

 

…

 

Then it was done. Then it was silence.

 

_ (Crowley) _

 

The air, cold and stunning and abundant, was the first thing he perceived. The next was his own frantic heart, spurred by anxiety preceding even the return of memory, trying to wrench itself out of the ribcage from sheer pressure of the question. 

_What, what, what’s —_

Crowley’s eyes opened to a shock of light that wasn’t nearly as brilliant and assaulting as his reconstructed sight maintained, infused with a stagnant comforting grey. He inhaled sharply, and froze upon the world around him. 

Only half of the dirty-green leaves were still scattering the trees, only a blurry shape of a fairly shapeless cloud was half-reflected in muddy water, with a fanfare of muted noises somewhere from behind, from where the street would have been. An old man staring at him, stony-faced and cryptic in his paper skin and countless wrinkles, sitting hunched on bench across the rumpled old grass, with a paper bag of tomatoes sitting in his lap.

_It’s again_ , Crowley thought, dazed and awed at the same time, moving incongruously. _It’s once more._

Then there was a sigh somewhere startlingly, heavily close and only _then_ did he realise what the first thing should have been: Aziraphale’s hair was in his face and he was stretched on top Crowley under a flurry of bent white feathers and a haphazardly flung-over coat. 

And right there, on a park bench, with one of his feet upon the pavement, wind sneaking up his trouser leg; the other locked in almost exhilarating numbness by Aziraphale’s calf, Crowley crushed head-first into the blinding thought of _surviving_.

It was stunning. It was impossible. It was —

Still so _quiet_.

‘Angel,’ he whispered helplessly, fingers tightening around Aziraphale’s upper arm. ‘ _Angel_.’

If there were any proper miracles for anyone at all, besides for card tricks and evading traffic, then this — Aziraphale giving a start and moving blindly to sit up dishevelled, sleep-hazy and beige in his godawful tweeds, ungainly clutching at the blanket of an unfamiliar coat before it slid down to the ground — this was the only one Crowley would ever want to be granted. 

Momentarily unable to speak, he refused to let go of the angel’s forearm, trying to remember how to breathe.

‘We’re back,’ Aziraphale said in the meantime, breathlessly, discarding any — supposedly obligatory — scan of their retrieved surroundings in favour of gazing with awed insistence down at Crowley. He made another lopsided movement, almost toppling forward, to touch Crowley’s face: clumsy fingers poked his cheekbone and brushed downwards, mirroring the improbably distant previous night. ‘ _We_ are _back_.’

Still speechless — and a hazy thought, _goddamn it, first sight, now speech, am I going to be impaired in one way or another through a new blasted eternity_ — Crowley managed a jerky half-nod, trying dumbly to tell the difference between Aziraphale’s unbearably bright eyes and the pale grey sky outlining the halo of his unkempt hair.

Some bird, maybe a bloody nightingale, maybe just a ruddy old sparrow, was making noise close by, first a shrill tune then a rapid flapping of wings.

And then it hit him: wings. _Wings_. As if electrified, Crowley jerked his head to the side and propped himself up on one elbow, almost disrupting the precarious balance of their clumsy arrangement, searching for the old man with the tomatoes.

An old man, staring at a pair of something in the way of angels, unruffled, _knowing_.

‘What are you looking for?’ Aziraphale said relentlessly, sounding both frantic and grave, and very shaky. ‘Did you see someone?’

But there was no one; the man had either left or was had never been there in the first place. Just an empty bench and a small ferocious duck attacking the sand by the pond. Crowley blinked, a full motion of eyelids, some inexplicable tightness gathering in his ribcage. _It’s again. It’s again._

‘I …’ 

What _was_ he looking for? Some sign of treachery, for sure, a crack in the record.Some promise of a second, third round, a prophecy after prophecy, a plan within plan. Or perhaps something else entirely — an allowance? A confirmation of victory? An old prophet with a bag of tomatoes and birdseed, to come up and say, _It’s done. You’re off the hook._

‘It’s over,’ Crowley croaked out, turning his face back, gripping Aziraphale’s arm like a lifeline. He sounded urgent, uncertain, and there was moisture in his eyes, that really shouldn’t be allowed, _really_ , ‘Aziraphale, it — it’s happened, right? And we — ’

_and we remained, and do I dare question —_

‘Yes,’ Aziraphale said shortly, with something new in his voice, and before the newly revived time invented any more space for reason, reached down for Crowley once again.

The world had relapsed, new and frightening and still cold from the second-long eternity of the near-death it had brushed past — and in the very centre of it there was Crowley, shaking, and Aziraphale, tugging him up for a clumsy kiss under a haggard coat that belonged to no one in particular and a mess of ruffled wings. Some warmth where fingertips met with the jawline and in the connection of lips; almost improbable against the stark breathable new air. 

Crowley didn’t protest, leaning forward, shaky hands travelling blindly to settle or clutch or pull closer — he wasn’t sure.

And questions, about seventeen simultaneous questions, of an erratic overwhelmed ancient mind, among which there was _why?_ and _what follows?_ only this time, they were all drowned out by the simple: 

_We do._

 

…

 

_ And those who expected lightning and thunder _

_ Are disappointed. _

_ And those who expected signs and archangels’ trumps _

_ Do not believe it is happening now. _

_ As long as the sun and the moon are above, _

_ As long as the bumblebee visits a rose, _

_ As long as rosy infants are born _

_ No one believes it is happening now. _

 

_ Only a white-haired old man, who would be a prophet _

_ Yet is not a prophet, for he’s much too busy, _

_ Repeats while he binds his tomatoes: _

_ There will be no other end of the world, _

_ There will be no other end of the world. _

 

— Czesław Miłosz, from _A Song on the End of the World_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would love to hear your thoughts. As nervous as I am, I do also hope it wasn't terribly disappointing, ha! 
> 
> Lots of love,  
> Leslie xx

**Author's Note:**

> ... And here went nothing. I would love to hear from you. What do you think? It honestly makes me feel like I have literal angel wings each time I read a review.
> 
> P.S. Perhaps unsurprisingly, the story title comes from Richard Siken; chapter titles from T.S. Eliot. What can I say, I am _hopeless._
> 
> \- Leslie xx


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